What Your Country Can Do For You
by niirasri
Summary: A series of one-shots exploring the interaction between the countries and their beloved people.  Sometimes, one person needs just as much help as the whole.  Current chapter: Switzerland
1. Japan

So wow, I've finally decided to post a new story. A Hetalia one, at that. This was inspired by a prompt on LJ along the lines of showing how the countries interact with their citizens. I would post this on there as well, but I don't know how... and I'm way too timid on the internet. OTL;; Ah well, hopefully my writing style has vastly improved from my last stories. It's been a good number of years... I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

Warning: Rated T for language and some mature ideas. I don't think that either of those are in this chapter, but they will be present in future installments.

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His family was waiting for him at home, of that he was sure. He didn't want to face them – that, he was also certain of. The man hardly could face himself;he rubbed his eyes roughly, hunching into his chest.

So this was what being useless felt like. A little bit bitter… and heavy, like a weight sitting in the bottom of his stomach. Maybe that was why the man couldn't seem to get up from the bench. The feeling was akin to that of failure; he had experienced both that day. And he knew that it was his fault. It was his fault that he hadn't been able to find a solution to the sudden decline in advertising success. It was his fault he had let the team down when he couldn't organize them well enough to tackle the problem. It was his fault when his boss had called the man angrily into his office.

It was his fault that his job was now someone else's. And it had only taken one day. Three minutes, actually – it took his boss that long to explain all of the man's shortcomings and to release him from his position in the company. His last paycheck would come in a week. And then it was over. Just like that, he had become useless.

A failure.

But these feelings were nothing compared to his dread of going home, facing his wife, who had been nothing but hardworking and loyal to him. Facing his two children, who were working hard in school to make bright futures for themselves. Revealing that he had failed them, along with everyone else.

It was almost too much to bear. He was lost, sitting there on that bench. And he knew he wasn't the only one in Tokyo to be jobless, but it sure felt that way.

Looking up, he saw around him men and women in business suits lugging briefcases. Students clothed in uniforms chatted amiably among themselves as they waited at stoplights, no doubt on their way home from school. Nobody stopped to look at him, nobody stopped to say anything.

He definitely felt alone, and that was just as bad as feeling useless.

The sound of car horns made him cringe, and he was shaken out of his thoughts. Sighing, he stood slowly – feeling his age in the way his back cracked and his legs stiffened. _Maybe_, he thought, _maybe my time is just starting to pass…_ A depressing thought, but it was exactly what he felt.

Picking up his own briefcase, now not worth anything, he started to trudge down the sidewalk. It wasn't towards his home, however; he just wasn't ready. He didn't know if he'd ever be ready. But now… was just not the time. He needed to be alone. He needed to come to terms with his own failure before he could tell anyone else.

_Besides, _a bitter voice in his thoughts said, _you're of no use to anymore, anyway._ Maybe it was time for him to just disappear.

A bar seemed like a good place to do that. He found one on the corner of two not quite-busy streets. If one had asked him the number of blocks he had walked to get there, the man wouldn't have been able to answer. He was completely lost in his thoughts, and was surprised that he could even recognize what a bar was.

The inside was dark and smelled like smoke. The man coughed a little – he wasn't used to this type of place. The atmosphere, however, seemed to be an echo of his mind at the moment; empty, dark, and depressing. To him right now, it seemed perfect.

He sat down at the front, sliding onto the stool with an unfamiliar feeling – he had gone to bars before, but those days had been put behind him awhile ago once he had outgrown being a teenager and had gained a family. He had never missed it… and even now he couldn't get used to the feeling of being here.

The tender walked up to him, and, with a grim sense of masochism, the man forced himself to acknowledge that even this person in front of him had a job while he didn't. He bit his lip, tossed his yen onto the counter, and ordered.

The alcohol did not make him feel better, like he had been counting on it to do. It burned in the back of his throat going down, and immediately made his stomach rise up in protest. It had really been a long time since he drank anything, he admitted to himself. His vision wasn't blurry, but he could feel the effects of the drinks start to make themselves known. However, even with his mind spinning slightly, he couldn't forget his lost job. And he definitely couldn't rid his mind of the soon-to-be disappointed faces of his wife and children.

In fact, with the alcohol bringing up unpleasant thoughts in his head, the man was now hearing his own father's voice in his head.

'_You can't honestly think you can live this way, can you?_'

'_I will not believe that you have brought so much dishonor to the family name._'

It had been awhile since that bitter voice had spoken to him. How fitting that it would resurface now. He left the bar, holding his head and willing everything to just disappear. Leave him alone. His situation was tortuous enough – he didn't need anything else. Images flashed through his head relentlessly, each one making him feel worse than the last. Walking down the sidewalk, he didn't care where he was going. He felt the curb drop out beneath him, but the man could only think of the voices and pictures flashing through his mind of his wife, his father, his kids, his boss…

"Sir?" He felt a hand on his shoulder, and let it guide him backwards. The man stumbled a little on the curb, letting his own hands drop from his face to see who had spoken. A young man stood before him, staring at him seriously. He had straight black hair which fell to the sides of his face neatly, and was small of stature.

"Sir, are you feeling okay?" the other man asked concernedly. He didn't hear him. Instead, he was distracted by the fact that it was now dark. He and the other person were illuminated under a streetlight. Cars passing by had their headlights on. He hadn't really been in the bar that long, had he? What was that, three hours? More? The man reeled slightly in disbelief. First he lost his job, and now he was leaving his family at home – alone at night? What kind of person was he?

The man who had pulled him off the street was trying to get his attention. "Sir? Sir? I'm afraid you need to answer me, otherwise I can't help you…"

"I don't want you to help me," the man said as soon as he could get his mouth under control.

"But you seem troubled."

_I just lost my family's only source of income, and you think I'm troubled? How perceptive._ Guiltily, he shoved that thought aside – this young man was only trying to help. "No, please… just… leave me be." He tried to smile at the other, but knew that it came out pained. He started to walk away, but the young man followed.

"At least allow me to escort you to where you are going."

Where was he going? Even he didn't know that. His first impulse was to go home… but that couldn't happen. He still wasn't ready. He wasn't sure he was ever going to be ready.

He couldn't do anything but heave a choked sigh, and then stumble forward into a jerky walk. The alcohol was affecting him worse than he had expected. The young man stayed silent as he walked beside him. In some corner of his bleary mind, the man realized that he was walking much slower than he normally would – patiently keeping in step with him. Did he really seem that needy? Or maybe the kid pitied him? He didn't want pity; he just wanted his job back!

With a grunt, he tried to quicken his pace and stand up straight, but suddenly the ground seemed to slant. He stumbled over his feet only to fall into the young man, who was now supporting him carefully.

"Maybe, if you tell me your address, I can help you get home. It is late at night, after all." The young man helped to steady him, but still had a hand on his shoulder, as if he were liable to tip over at any moment. Maybe he was – the man couldn't be sure of his own footing, but this just seemed all wrong to him. This kid was acting too concerned about him; about a man who couldn't even face his family because of his lost job. He was too pathetic – the kid had no idea what kind of failure he was talking to.

"Please, just… just go home," he choked out, brushing him off. To his surprise, the other man's hand wrapped around his wrist and held it tightly.

"Sir, I'm trying to get _you _home," the boy said gently, but firmly. "But why don't you tell me first why you don't want to?"

A dry chuckle came out of the man's throat unbidden. "Because I have nothing more to bring them." The admission hurt just as much as he thought it would. Now a silence hung between them.

"You lost your job?" the younger one asked quietly. At the other's nod, he developed a small frown, his brown eyes looking extremely troubled. "That doesn't mean you have nothing left to give your family; it doesn't mean that at all."

"They won't think that," he responded quietly. He glanced at the young man. The other's eyes, to his surprise, seemed to age as they looked at him.

"I'm disappointed that you have so little faith in your family."

"No, that's not it at all! My wife loves me, and my kids do, too! I would trust them with everything."

"So why aren't you with them?"

Those words hit home, and the man bowed his head in shame. He did trust his family with anything, and the look in the young man's determined face was clear: '_Why shouldn't you trust them with this, too?_'

Because he was scared that they would reject him now, that was why. The dishonor he had brought with disappointment…

But… didn't that prove that he wasn't trusting them? That wasn't right – he _needed _to trust them. They were his world...

He felt awful once again, but for the first time that day it wasn't because he was feeling sorry for himself. It was because he had _truly_ failed them by fearing their reaction.

The man looked up at the other, who was now smiling slightly. _What a wise kid,_ he thought with respect. "My address is 1308 on Kishisono Street. My name is Hitoro Marufuji." He stood up tall this time without a hitch, and looked down at the man he now considered his near-guardian angel. "W-will you please help me home?"

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As Japan left the house, Mrs. Hitoro bowed deeply to him, Marufuji's two sons gathered around her knees. "I cannot express my full gratitude towards you. Thank you for bringing him home safely."

Japan blushed and shook his head as he bowed back. "Please, I do not require thanks. It was a pleasure to meet him." He smiled at her. "You have quite an exceptional husband."

She returned the smile wholeheartedly. "I know – I am very fortunate. I'm not worried about his job status at all," she said quietly, holding her children close. "I trust him."

"He knew you would." Japan bowed once again and strode down the gravel walk. The children shouted out goodbyes to him as their mother closed the door.

At the gates, Japan turned around. Making sure that no one was watching, he took out a couple bills from his breast pocket and slipped them into the mailbox marked "Hitoro." He was glad that they had so much faith in each other, and Japan hoped that the extra money would help them along, also. Sometimes, people just needed an extra boost.

As the country continued on his way, he observed the neighborhood around him. For Tokyo, this was a nice area in which to live, with houses spread out enough to allow for a few patches of green grass in the yards around him. He smiled. His own home was very far away from here, on the other side of the city, but the island country would not mind the travel. He was just content knowing that Marufuji had made it home to his caring family. Japan knew that it was the type of life many would wish for. He also knew that Marufuji and his family would make it through these harder times with every ounce of their love and pride in tact.

The Japanese tended to have a skill for accomplishing such feats in any condition.

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Hopefully it was actually (dareisayit) entertaining? Thoughtful? If you like it, I would love to hear your comments! If you hate it, review anyway! Constructive criticism is put up on a pedestal in the forefront of my mind to be worshipped.

Next chapter will be England. I don't know how many there will be, but at the moment I have around ten different one-shots planned. Thanks so much for reading!


	2. England

Wow, I really didn't expect to get such great feedback! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Every comment means a lot to me, especially with the stress of college popping up in my life. I've managed to keep that at a minimum by nomming on Earl Grey tea and peanut butter, which seems to be working. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

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This couldn't be happening. At least, that was what she had told herself ten minutes ago. Ten minutes ago, in the quiet restroom stall, her mind numb from the too-white tile, the drip of a leaking faucet, and what the small piece of plastic in front of her was saying.

A miniscule plus sign. Her knuckles were as white as the walls around her, but her eyes were closed. Looking at it was painful. A few ragged breaths accompanied the _drip drip _of the faucet, but that was all. Inside of her mind, she was screaming.

Pregnant. She couldn't be pregnant. She was seventeen – only seventeen. Some other teenagers got pregnant – not her. Some other teenagers who were ready to drop out anyway; those who had already screwed up their lives with the easy availability of cigarettes and drugs and alcohol. The ones who were close to flunking out of school, so what was the point of staying for them? But not her. Not the goody-two-shoes girl who did what teachers asked her to and hardly stayed out later than eight o' clock on school nights. Denial made her thoughts fade into whispers drumming relentlessly at her skull. Numbly, she reached up and wiped her mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that she couldn't stay hunched in this stall forever. Her hands moved smoothly as they opened the door, threw away the piece of plastic, turned on the tap and washed with soap… It seemed too normal of a routine to come after the biggest catastrophe of her life.

She pushed out of the restroom and rushed past the other customers. The automatic doors whooshed open in time for her to dash out onto the sidewalk, leaving the convenience store behind. The girl didn't know where she was going, but it wasn't home.

Hardly anyone was out today. Rainclouds were gathering overhead, and, for a moment, she fancied that they were here just to mirror her mood. '_Of course it would rain in London,_' she thought to herself. '_It _is _London, after all._' It was fitting, to have disaster rain down upon her, and then have rain itself. A perfect accompaniment. Maybe the water would wash away the fog that seemed to cloud her mind at the moment. Maybe she would then be able to think clearly about what to do…

She sat down on a park bench and clasped her hands together in front of her. The girl stared down at the concrete riddled with cracks and stuck-on chewing gum. Ten minutes ago, in that tiny stall, her life was knocked off kilter. It was hard to imagine that everything could change that quickly. Surely there was some way to put it back on track? To mend it so that it couldn't shatter? '_This couldn't be happening..._'

Of course there was, and it had been silently there in the back of her mind since the plus sign had slowly faded into life. The last resort: abortion. She couldn't deal with pregnancy, so there was a way she didn't have to. No one would find out, either; her friends, her parents, her boyfriend… The girl swallowed hard. He couldn't find out. He had never asked for this – it wasn't his fault that the condom broke. It was bad luck. Just like it was bad luck that she had never thought to start on birth control. Good girls like her never got pregnant, after all…

Obviously, she had been wrong.

She needed to figure out what to do. Somewhere in London there had to be a center that took care of things like this. Maybe if she called and asked they would tell her where it was safe to have an abortion. The sooner she could get it done, the sooner her life could be recovered – maybe she would stop harboring the feeling of having swallowed lead. This stress was piling up on her, it felt like she needed to do a million things at once to make this go away. In reality, she only needed to do one. Or rather, have a doctor do it for her. She shivered.

"Excuse me, but may I sit here?" The girl looked up to see a man pointing at the spot next to her.

"Yes, that seat's not taken," she murmured, moving over to allow room for the man. He sat down, but that barely registered in her mind. Crammed into it were more pressing issues: did she have to tell the doctor anything? Would she have to run back home for money? (She didn't know if she could face her parents. This was too much; maybe the doctor could be paid later.) Was this going to hurt? Not that it would matter, anyway, and that seemed like a rather petty thing to be worried about now, but she couldn't help it. Anything she could distract herself with, she did. She didn't know if there would be any blood, but she hoped there wouldn't be. It would haunt her for a long time, she knew. Just the idea of it… but she had to just buck up and do it. Stiff upper-lip and all that. Everything could be over…

Her thoughts came to a jarring halt as she realized that she didn't know where a hospital was. It was logical to go to a hospital first – they could show her different options (she knew there was only one) and point her in the right direction. But if she had no way to get to a hospital… then she was just as stuck as she had been back in the stall - hunched over the toilet, mind at standstill and close to tears. This was getting to be too much for her… She_ needed _to find out where the hospital was. She felt like she was suffocating.

Steeling herself, she turned to the man next to her. "C-could you tell me where the nearest hospital is?" she asked quietly.

He turned to her with alarm, and she could tell that she had made a mistake. "You're not hurt, are you?" he questioned with evident concern. "Are you sick?" His eyebrows (very thick eyebrows, she noted) knitted together as he looked over her.

She recoiled from his questions and quickly shook her head. Stupid, she told herself, of course it would sound desperate. She shouldn't have said anything.

"Ah, no, I'm fine," she told him, shaking her head. "I just… my mum's in the hospital, and I need to visit her." The girl pulled her story out of the air, hoping she sounded believable. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced back at the man, trying to see what he was thinking. She couldn't tell, but the way his green eyes were staring at her made her uncomfortable.

"If that's the case, then you'll want to hop this coach," he said, standing up. She looked up, startled, to see that there was indeed a bus in front of them. She didn't even realize that she had seated herself at a coach stop. There weren't overly many in London, since everyone used the underground, but they still existed. The girl shakily got to her feet and boarded the bus, dropping her coins in the toll machine.

"Where do I get off?" She turned around to ask, but the man was already boarding behind her.

"I'll take you there," he said, carrying his briefcase onto the coach.

She bit her lip and edged away from him. "No, that's all right, you can just tell me…"

He shook his head. "It's a bit hard to find, and easy to get lost. It will be better if I help you." He sat down next to her, near the back. She looked out the window, but he continued, "Besides all that, I wouldn't leave someone in distress to fare for themselves; that's ungentlemanly-like behavior."

She turned sharply towards him. "I'm not in distress!" She loathed the fact that her voice rose slightly.

He considered her for a second. "What is your mother sick with?"

She was taken aback by the unexpected question. "Um…u-uh…" She struggled for a minute before her thoughts started to go blank. She couldn't come up with anything in her already-tired mind. Finally, giving up, she turned to look out the window, tears starting to pool in her eyes. In the reflection, she could see the man shake his head, which just made her angry. Who was this bloke, and what right did he have to be prying into her personal business? He looked hardly older than her – maybe in his early twenties, and he was acting like her father!

The girl turned to him, ready to give him a piece of her mind, when she saw that he was holding out something to her. It looked a bit like dried oatmeal, and was black around the edges, but she managed to recognize it as a scone.

"I made these this morning. I know they're a bit burnt, but hopefully they still taste okay." She took it silently, and he started to eat one himself. Looking down at the burnt little scone, she felt her throat grow tight and tears blur her vision.

The man turned to her again as he heard her breathing hitch. He sighed. "Oh, surely they're not that bad. I know I'm not the best cook, but-"

She shook her head. "No, it's not that…" There was silence between them as she fought to regain her composure and he waited for her to continue. She was afraid of what she was going to say next. She bit her lip again – this had to remain a secret. Only she could know. If it didn't, then her life would be ruined…

"Are you sick?" he asked again, more quietly this time. She choked on a sob.

"No," she whispered. "I'm pregnant." She fought the tears that threatened to overflow and swallowed them down. Managing to get herself under control, she finally looked back at the man. He was staring at her thoughtfully, turning over one of the scones in his hand. Fear clutched at her. He was going to tell her parents, her friends, everyone. This was a mistake, a horrible, horrible mistake…

"Why are you crying, then?" he asked finally. Her thoughts came to a screeching halt at the question.

"What?" she said, looking up at him incredulously. "Why am I…? Are you off your rocker?" she asked before she could stop herself. But at this point, she really didn't care. "I just ruined my life, and you're asking me why I'm crying? I'm not even out of the house yet, I'm not even done with school! My mum and dad will never trust me again if they find out, and I'm about to go have something ripped out of my body! I'm going to the hospital to have an abortion, and I'm unhappy and scared-"

"You're not going to keep it?" The man looked at her with genuine surprise, which somehow halted all of her anger. Keep it? Did he really expect her to do that? She _couldn't _keep it, because then everyone would find out, and, and… It was something she hadn't even considered. Keep the baby? But then… how would she raise it?

The man absentmindedly brushed crumbs off of his suit as he began to talk again. "I understand that you're young to be having a child…" To his credit, she noted, he looked uncomfortable to be talking about the subject, but he pushed forward anyway. "…But I don't think you should give up based on just that. You should consider everything else before being rash."

"What would you bloody know about it?" It was asked with more venom than she had meant, but he didn't looked offended. Rather, a small smile appeared on his face, taking her aback.

"Raising a child is a wonderful thing," he said, and she had to lean in to hear him. He wasn't looking at her anymore, or even at his hands, which were what his eyes were trained on. It was obvious that his sight was very far away. "You don't really understand it until you experience it, but it's something that can't be traded for the world. It's wonderful… just knowing that you have someone to protect."

He wasn't even looking at her to see how hard his words were hitting her. They sat silently, the two of them, swaying slightly in motion with the coach. She tilted her head down, letting her hair fall into her face. For the first time since she had found out, she put her hands on her stomach, just letting them rest there. Here, inside of her, there was actually a _child_ growing. She was a _mother_. The word sat in her mind, tasting new to her worn-out thoughts.

"They think the world of you," he continued, and she looked back up to listen. "And it makes you feel like you're really needed. Your purpose suddenly becomes to raise them until they're the best they can be. It's… hard, but it is the best thing you will ever do." He turned to look at her finally, and they both held the gaze. She was scared, now – more scared than she had been yet that day. And it was because now, with the way he was looking at her and what he had said… she was unsure. She didn't know what to do. At least before she had been certain.

"I… I'm afraid my boyfriend won't stay with me," she finally confessed. "And I don't want my parents to be disappointed." Her voice sounded pleading to her own ears, and she flinched. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I can't tell you what to do. This is your own decision." Both of them felt the bus slow to a halt under their feet, and she looked up. He kept his eyes trained on her face. "This is the stop for the hospital." He said nothing more, and let his hand slide off her shoulder. She looked out the window.

It really didn't seem like that big of a decision for her to stand up and walk off the coach, but she realized that what she did next would change her life. It was a weakness of hers, she knew – she never dealt well under pressure. She turned her eyes back towards the window, and looked out at the people passing by. Suddenly, she saw a child trip and fall and start wailing. Tears poured down his cheeks. His father hoisted him up high, handing him to his mother, where he was squeezed and kissed until the boy was giggling madly, which then made his mother laugh along in turn.

The bus doors closed. She turned back to the man, who was smiling warmly at her. She held out her hand. "I'm Laurie," she said as they shook hands.

"Arthur. It's nice to meet you."

Arthur… Laurie looked down at her stomach once again. She had a good idea of what to name her baby if it turned out to be a boy.

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England was very, very late by the time he ran up the steps of the government building, out of breath and clutching his briefcase tightly. The coach had been going the opposite way that he needed to go, so at the next stop, he had jumped off and hailed a taxi. Traffic wouldn't allow for such convenience, however, and less than halfway there the country had quickly paid the driver and set off down the sidewalk in a hurry. The world conference meeting had started fifteen minutes ago, and here he was being late. Of course, he was _usually _an hour early to these things, so being late once or twice shouldn't be a problem, but it still irked him. Especially knowing how the other countries would react.

He opened the meeting room door loudly and walked in, adjusting his tie.

"_Angleterre_! My goodness, we were under the impression that you had come down with something serious! I, of course, am _so _disappointed that you're-" England pushed France out of the way so he could sit down. The long-haired man sighed dramatically and returned to his seat, draping himself across the blonde country. England shoved him away again ("Bloody _get off_ already!") and put his briefcase on the table.

"Iggy!" America shouted even though the blasted man was right next to him. "I can't believe you're so late! Even _I _was here before you! What's wrong, getting slow in your old age?"

"Shut your bloody mouth, you git!" England turned his chair away from him, but his former colony just leaned on the table to talk to him, completely ignoring Germany, who was trying to recover the subject they had been discussing prior to England's entrance.

"Did you oversleep or something? I bet you did. Even stuck-up England has to mess up sometimes!" The other country wore a grin that was doing nothing to help England's mood, but suddenly, instead of the cocky and boisterous America, he saw the country as he had been four hundred years ago, with the big, sweet smile he had whenever showing his big brother something. _"England, look, look what I found!" "Hey England, isn't this neat?" _England was completely lost in the memory for a moment as America kept talking. Finally, the younger country flicked England on the forehead, startling him out of his reverie.

"Ouch! What, was that, you twit?"

"You were completely spacing. Even sleeping in, and you need more sleep!"

"I didn't sleep in, you oaf!"

"Uh-huh, likely story. Come on, Iggy, no one's perfect!" America slung an arm around England, grinning stupidly once again.

"Ugh, get off me! I hope her child doesn't turn out to be anything like you, that's for sure!"

America blinked in confusion. "What the heck, are you going senile or something? What are you talking about?"

"Belt up and pay attention," England snapped, turning his eyes to the front of the room, where Russia had managed to silence everyone with a fair amount of ease; Germany was standing off to the side, looking extremely uncomfortable as Russia took his seat once again.

"Anyway, as we were discussing…" he continued, shuffling his papers in front of him. England glanced down at his notes to see what issue they were on, but the words seemed to jumble together. He was just not in a mood to be here right now. His thoughts drifted back to Laurie. He had left her on the bus, but she had been smiling as he got up to go. No doubt she was relieved at finally knowing what to do. It would definitely be difficult for her, both of them had known that, but she had seemed certain of her decision. Telling her parents would only be the first obstacle, he acknowledged, but before he had left she had looked up at him with a genuine smile.

"_Thank you_," Laurie had told him, and she looked so grateful that England had blushed with embarrassment.

"_I just didn't want you to miss something wonderful_," he had replied, and stepped off the bus.

He turned his head sideways to look at America, still lost in his thoughts. The younger country was actually paying attention to the meeting for once, though his hands were fiddling with his pen. He had been so small at one time… Centuries ago when England had lifted him up to hug him, when they had played with toys on the living room floor, when America had managed to finally touch the top of the counter with an enthusiastic "_Look, Iggy, look! I'm finally big enough!_" America noticed England staring at him.

"What?" America whispered. "Stop looking at me like that, England, it's creepy."

England snapped out of his thoughts and blushed. "I wasn't doing anything of the sort! Mind your own business!" he responded tartly, picking up his notes again to bury his face in them. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw America roll his eyes and go back to watching Germany. He hoped to bloody god that Laurie's child wouldn't grow up to be like him. He could tell that the girl would be able to handle a lot, but even someone like America might be pushing the limits.

He rested his cheek on his hand as he wondered if she was home yet. He knew that she needed the support of her parents and friends, not just a stranger she met on the street. No doubt though, he thought to himself, that since she was living in such a grand country, she would be able to raise the child splendidly. She was English – family was a source of strength and pride. He smiled to himself as he thought of the baby she would raise into another fine citizen. England was sure that only the English could have this much spirit, after all.

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Hopefully I'm fairly consistent with the quality of each installment. Once again, I adore all readers and reviewers just happen to be as awesome as Prussia. So if you review, you can pat yourself on the back for being so all-encompassingly awesome.

Oh, and if any of you were skeptical about "four hundred years ago" when i was referring to America's childhood, I figure that since American civilization began in the early 1600s, then that would be when America was a child. Therefore, four hundred years ago.

Next chapter will be Germany! (Stay tuned!)


	3. Germany

A/N: Hey guys, thanks so much for still sticking with this story! I'm so glad that people seem to like it! This chapter was my favorite to do so far... just because I like writing characters of different ages. And also because I made myself squee at some points.

In other news, college was kicking my ass... until I realized... that it really isn't necessary to do all of my homework and studying a week ahead of time. XD Just because they give you a schedule of what's due when doesn't mean I should work ahead ridiculously. So hopefully I'll just relax a little more... by writing!

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

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A church bell rang somewhere, far away from where the little girl was standing. Its chimes echoed off the buildings around her and created a harsh melody, though that did nothing to deter the many people moving every which way on the streets of Munich. The busy sidewalks, which would seem normal to any adult used to the city, were a source of terror for the girl. She halfway hid herself behind an old, rust-covered statue, peering out at the figures passing by. Once, in a book she had read, it said that in her situation, everyone else would seem to blend together in her mind. That wasn't true, she realized, clutching her pink coat closer to herself. All of them still looked unique, like different people on their way to do different things with their different lives. It was just that…

…None of them were her parents. And her parents were all she was looking for right now.

For the past two hours, she had been wandering around the same three blocks, trying to find _anything _that looked familiar. Nothing did. She wedged herself closer to the statue and wished with all of her might that she had paid more attention when she was holding both her mutti's and vati's hands, swinging happily between them. That had been just a couple hours ago, but seemed like forever to her inexperienced mind; especially when her stomach was empty and starting to growl. She bit her lip and clenched the coat tighter.

"Shush," she whispered to her stomach, still looking around the block. No one had noticed her from her hiding spot, and she wanted to keep it that way. If her tummy growled too loud and made too much noise, then a kidnapper might find her and run away with her. That was what her mutti told her when she was four: '_Strangers are dangerous, so don't talk to them. You could be kidnapped and taken away from us and leave us very sad. What would we do then?_'

She hoped that her mutti and vati had figured out what they would do without her by now, because now it had happened. But an evil person hadn't kidnapped her and taken her away – it was because she had seen a cat in the streets, and had run over to pet it. The assumption had been that her parents would see her and follow, even if they were busy talking with a shopkeeper about their prices. Mutti _always _knew where she was.

But not now, or otherwise they would have come to rescue her by now. The girl bit her lip again and rubbed her eyes with frustration. She couldn't cry! She was a big girl, and had to find her parents! But she wasn't big enough to know where she was, or what to do… Tears welled up in the corner of her eyes again and she sniffed.

A bicycle passed close by to her, making her jump and fall down on the sidewalk. It didn't hurt, but was enough to finally make the girl start to cry. She ran from her hiding place to a group of trashcans outside of an apartment, and hunched behind them. They blocked her from anyone's view, and she cried, gripping her knees and hiccupping quietly. This was horrible – first she had lost her parents, and now she was surrounded by dangerous people. A part of her young mind told her that she was being unreasonable, and that most of these people wouldn't even think of hurting her, but she was too scared at this point to bother reasoning with herself. All she wanted was her mutti and vati and her stuffed dog that she had left in the car.

'_Maybe_,' she thought to herself as she wiped her running nose on her coat sleeve, '_mutti and vati aren't trying to find me. Maybe mutti and vati wanted to lose me and run away without me, because I was bad last night and wouldn't eat dinner._' She sadly clenched her miniature fists together and looked up at the sky.

"I promise," she half-whispered, half-sobbed, "that if mutti and vati find me I'll eat all of my dinners for the rest of my life. I promise, so make them find me. 'Cause I'll be good always from now on." Quietly, she peered her tear-streaked face above the trashcans, looking around for them. She saw nothing but more people in suits and coats, passing by quickly and ignoring her. Her chest tightened again and she sat down on the pavement, more sobs sticking in her throat. Why weren't they coming to find her? She had even prayed!

"I want my mutti," she cried, burying her face in her hands, "I want my mutti I want my mutti…" That was all she could say anymore, and she wasn't even sure that her garbled whimpers counted as words. She just sat there, feeling hopeless and crying as hard as she could.

'_A big girl would know how to find her parents_,' she thought to herself, which just made her cry harder; she wasn't _really _a big girl – she just pretended to be so that mutti and vati would be proud and treat her like a big girl. She was still really little and didn't care if a big girl could find her parents, because she couldn't and that was that. She was going to be lost forever and ever and never find a way back home and she would have to live on the streets in the cold and rain and in a cardboard box like a homeless person she had seen once, but she didn't even know where to find a box and even if she did, it would be wet and cold… With her thoughts spiraling further and further out of control, the little girl sobbed harder and harder until she was almost hysterical. She drew huge breaths which hitched in her throat, creating a hiccupping sound.

Suddenly, just as she was reaching up to wipe her face again, a mouse darted out from under one of the trash cans. She screamed and fell backwards against one of the other cans, causing it to tip over and fall to the cement with a great clanging sound. She froze and whipped around. The sound had caused everyone on the sidewalk to turn and look at her, wondering why a girl was sitting there.

Now she knew what her book had meant – sitting there, close to panicking, the people surrounding her all seemed to be the same: scary and threatening and nothing like her mutti or vati. She wanted to run, but didn't know where to go. More tears filled her eyes.

"You, little girl, why are you hiding behind trash cans?" She looked up to see one of the men towering over her. With her blurred vision, he looked no different from the others, which was terrifying. But she didn't cry; she couldn't at this point. Everything seemed so hopeless.

"Come on now, stand up." Her legs felt flimsy and useless, but she tried anyway. With some difficulty she made it to her feet and wiped her eyes, then again looked up at the man. He was very tall – even taller than her vati. She wasn't even as tall as his waist, so to see him clearly her head was tilted all the way back. He had really light blonde hair and blue eyes, just like one of her dolls did. Although, he didn't look like her doll. Her dolls always smiled, but he was looking down at her with an expression that she didn't know what it was. Maybe it was what people called "stern," though she wasn't sure. Quickly, she looked down at her feet.

"Why were you hiding behind the trash cans?" he asked again.

She shuffled her feet and looked at the other people out of the corner of her eye. They had returned to their own lives, once again disinterested in the little girl who was now talking to a very tall and blonde man.

"B-because I was scared," she sniffed, still not looking at him.

There was a pause, and she looked up bashfully at him. He looked surprised, now.

"But, why are you scared?" The man looked down confusedly at her. She felt the pressure rise up in her throat at the question, and shook with the effort to keep from crying.

"Because I'm lost!" The answer came out more as a wail, and tears once again poured down her cheeks as she stood there. If he was a kidnapper, she would definitely be taken away now that she started crying, which made her cry harder.

"Ah, uh… Um… N-now, don't cry…" She was sobbing outright now, certain that her life was over. "L-listen to me, stop crying and we can fix this." He knelt down in front of her in order to see her face better, and put a gloved hand on her shoulder, which made her jump slightly. "Now, you say you're lost? I can help you find your parents if you calm down and tell me what they look like. So s-stop crying." The man seemed uncomfortable as he talked to her.

The pat on her shoulder was awkward, but to the little girl it seemed comforting. "You won't kidnap me?" she asked, once again hiccupping between the little labored breaths.

"What? No! Of course not!" He seemed flustered at the question, but was even more caught off-guard when she threw herself at him, clutching tightly to his shirt.

"I-I want to find my mutti and vati!" she said as calmly as she could. "But I don't know where they a-are…"

Regaining his composure, the man coughed and patted the girl on the back. "That doesn't matter. All I need to know is your name."

"I'm not allowed to tell strangers." The reply was so forceful that he found it surprising that such conviction came from such a little girl.

"Well, um… I'm trying to help you," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "I can't help if I don't know your name."

She looked at him through teary eyes. "Do you promise?" she whispered. This man didn't seem bad, even if he was a bit scary at first. Maybe she really could find her parents after all, if he helped her. But she needed to make sure. "You have to promise or I can't tell you because you're a bad guy, then."

To her surprise, the strict man smiled at her. It was a small smile, and she figured that he wasn't used to doing it that often since he looked so scary otherwise. "Yes, I promise I will help you find your parents." After a moment's thought, he held up his small finger. "We can pinky swear, if you want to."

She nodded, sniffing, and hooked his pinky with her much smaller one. "Okay, you're a good guy. My name is Ina," she told him quietly.

"Okay, Ina, let's go find your parents." He gently picked her up, and she wrapped her small arms around his shoulder.

"You know where they are?" she asked with wide eyes. He shook his head as they started walking.

"No, but we'll go to the police and they can call them. Do you know their phone number?" Ina nodded.

"I do because I'm a big girl," she told him. He nodded and they walked on in silence for a few minutes through the busy sidewalks that didn't seem so scary anymore. From up here, she could see that they were just other people and not the kidnappers they had all seemed to be before. Ina bit her lip. "I-I'm not really a big girl," she whispered. He turned his light blue eyes to look at her, and she was miserable at admitting this. "I'm just little because I don't know my way home. I'm sorry I lied, but I'm telling the truth now because I promised that I would be good from now on if I could find my parents."

"…That is very admirable of you." The man sounded impressed.

"Nuh-uh, I want to be big because then this would never happen."

"I think you're being very brave."

She looked up at him with surprise. Ina had been sure that he was going to hate her now that she had confessed to lying. The man was smiling at her again, and she smiled back.

"I really want to be brave, but I'm scared," she admitted.

The man shook his head. "Trust me, you're being very brave. In fact, you're being much braver than someone I know. He's even a grown-up, even if he doesn't act like it…" he muttered. This cheered Ina up even more. She was braver than a grown-up? Maybe she was growing faster than she thought.

The police station was pretty empty compared to the streets outside. Two men sat behind the counter, shuffling papers around on their desks and filing reports. The man sat Ina down at a table in the corner and went over to talk to them. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but hardly cared. She was going to find her parents soon. He prayers had really been answered by the really nice tall man. She smiled and wiped her face again with her coat sleeve (which was now looking very dirty.) By the time he returned, she was swinging her legs under the chair, beaming up at him.

"They're going to call your parents right now, all they need is for you to tell them the number, Ina."

Ina jumped off the chair and ran up to the man. She hugged his legs and turned her face up to see him. "Thank you very much! You are the best stranger ever! And I'm not lying, because I can't lie anymore, I promise." She held up her pinky to him.

He offered his little finger to her in surprise, and it only took another moment for what she said to sink in, and for him to smile down at her.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Germany left soon after that. Once Ina had given the police her parents' cell phone number, there was no reason for him to stay. He had only been out of the house to deliver a letter, anyway. Italy was probably waiting for him at home, wondering where Germany was again because he was a little late in returning. The country sighed and adjusted his tie as he walked down the sidewalk. He had better deliver the letter and head home quickly – there was no use in making Italy worry, after all. If he did, then arriving home the country was certain that he would find a very worried, very tearful Italian wailing about how he thought Germany had died. It was better to avoid that.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, a woman ran up to him, looking flustered.

"Excuse me, sir!" She looked up at him, tears threatening to spill over her eyelashes. "Could you tell me where the police station is?" A man ran up to stand next to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. He also looked up at Germany; not as flustered as his wife, but nervous all the same.

The country pointed back the way he had come. "It's down this street. If you walk three blocks down, it will be on the left next to a green grocer."

The woman quickly started running down the street, barely avoiding some of the other people using the sidewalks. The man clasped Germany's hand.

"Thank you so much. We lost our daughter, and just got a phone call that's she's at the station. Otherwise we'd be more polite." With a nod, he quickly ran after his wife, leaving Germany to watch them go.

The country followed Ina's parents with his eyes as they disappeared among the crowd. He felt a smile creep onto his normally severe face, and decided to let it. Germany picked up his boots again and continued on his way. There was no doubt in his mind that the little girl he had met earlier would be well taken care of. With a strong spirit like hers and caring parents like that, she was sure to be fine. Ina was from Germany, after all – strength was sure to run in her veins. That was one of the main sources of his pride: his people never gave up.

_

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A/N: So once again, thanks so much for reading! I'm at the point where I'm trying to write these along the same theme, but make them different enough to still have a unique feel to each one... it's harder than I expected. Reviews are like crack to me, and I need my fix.

Next up is Veneziano!


	4. Veneziano

A/N: Much love to everyone for all of the reviews! Actually, much love to anyone who enjoys this. Some people were inquiring in the reviews about the order of the characters I'm using: as to that, I already have a rough idea worked out of the order. If you would like to tell me which country in particular you want to see, I will add them in if I don't have any current plans to write them.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

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'_Well,_' he thought drily, '_that didn't go as planned._' The bricks were cold and hard against his back as he looked down. In fact, it had gone so badly that the teen's hands were shaking as he held his cell phone. The screen was still lit up, the small pixels reading "Call ended with: DAD."

'_Call ended with dad, is right._' Hot tears fought at his eyelids, and he wiped them away furiously, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. '_Call ended with dad, and mom, and the rest of my family, and the rest of my friends, and pretty much everyone else._' The phone was shoved in his pocket.

The autumn night was cold and a brisk wind swept right off of the sea's shore into the town. Normally, he wouldn't notice much about the weather, but unfortunately, his light jacket was the only thing acting as a shield against the night. It wasn't nearly enough; that was weird for Venice weather.

But apparently, tonight was a night for being different – for himself _and _the city. Maybe the two mirrored each other…

He wouldn't have minded if he were comparing himself to the Venice that tourists thought of; the beautiful island city full of canals and winding alleys. He wasn't comparing himself to that Venice. Not at all. The teen lived on the shore-bound counterpart. The city which was actually a city, and not a romanticized, all-too-clean haven of art and tourism. Mainland Venice. What a place to be.

The teen shrugged his back against another onslaught of wind, and stepped behind a building. His knuckles tightened around the cell phone in his pocket, willing it and dreading it to ring. He shouldn't have hung up on him in the first place – the teen realized that. But, in his defense, his father shouldn't have reacted like that. Shouldn't have yelled. Shouldn't have cursed him and yelled at him and been so damn _disappointed._

"_Merda!_" he cursed, punching his fist into the wall. Pain seared at his knuckles, but he just slammed it once again into the plaster. This time, he let the tears make small rivulets down his face. It was dark, no one could see him, and he felt like he had lost everyone… even the one who he had just sacrificed everything for.

How could he have left? Left him here alone to confess everything to his parents? When he needed him the most…?

_"I have to leave to go to college, but I'll be back before you know it," _he had said. _"Wait for me to return before you tell them."_

_ "But… what if I can't? I can't… keep this a secret forever."_

_ "Just until I get back. I promise. I love you."_

_ "…I love you, too."_

He had promised. But everything was all wrong with him gone… "_Just come back…_"

Drops of liquid salt parted from his chin to soak into his shirt. He hadn't kept his promise. He had told his parents, laying himself out defenseless before them without help.

He had come out. They had hurt him.

His boyfriend wasn't even here to help.

A boat wailed in the distance, and he shoved himself off the wall. His phone wasn't going to ring. His parents weren't going to try to call, and neither was his boyfriend. After all, how could he know what was happening? He was hundreds of miles away. It all came down to the fact that now…

…he was alone. It wasn't how he had expected to feel tonight. It was going to be a normal night; one where he sat down with his family to dinner (like usual,) talk to his father about the latest sports (as always,) sit down to do homework while his mother turned the television on (every night, without fail,) and feel like he was caged within his own mind (forever.)

But he couldn't do it anymore. He broke. Somehow, he felt like he had run away and stood up for himself simultaneously as he shut the phone on his father. And his father would tell his mother, and then it would be out. Their son was gay, what were they going to do?

Well, he didn't know either. And here he was, wandering at night between old, cracked buildings, with no idea what to do next. '_It's not,_' he reflected drily, looking out at the docks, '_my best moment._' Moonlight glinted off the water and, even in the evening, boats were moving in and out. Even mainland Venice was awake.

He must have been out for longer than he was aware, for people started to stroll the previously empty streets. It was dinner time, and the restaurants and stores had just opened from their afternoon siesta. While he would ordinarily be pleased to slip into the crowd and enjoy the lit-up shops and homely attractions, the teen just sank further into the enveloping alley. No one noticed, no one turned their head from their own business, their own families. He could be out here with his own family, as well, but he wasn't. He had hung up on them what seemed like forever ago. His boyfriend could be here with him, but he wasn't. He had left for school in what seemed like _longer_ than forever ago.

He felt like it would be quite a while before he walked the streets of Venice with either of them at his side. Staring at the bright lights of stores and restaurants did nothing to lift his mood. The teen turned away slowly; it was time to leave before he felt any more sorry for himself. He pulled out his phone – ready to call a friend in order to spend the night. Surely they wouldn't mind housing him for a couple hours; they wouldn't have found out yet, after all. It was only as he was walking away that a cacophony of metal crashed off the walls. Cell phone call forgotten, the teen jumped and turned around just in time to observe a cat run by. It pattered around the corner and was gone.

"Wait! Kitty!" Heavier footfalls were heard, causing him to turn around once again. This time, a man came running, but before he could get too far down the narrow side way, he fell over the tangle of garden tools that the feline had previously toppled.

The teen stood there, shocked for a moment, before jogging over to the mess to see if the guy was okay.

It turned out to be another teenager, who looked not much older than himself. He had reddish-brunette hair which curled out awkwardly on one side, and his eyes were scrunched up as he lay there on the ground.

"Owww." He whined from his stomach-to-cement position on the ground. The brunette sat up wearily.

"Hey, do you need help?" the teen asked, bending down to offer a hand. He was slightly shaken – he wasn't expecting for someone to barrel down the alley chasing after a cat.

The other looked up and opened his eyes. Sitting stunned for a moment, he then jumped up from the ground. When standing, the brunette was just slightly shorter than the other teen.

"Hello!" he exclaimed excitedly, as if he hadn't just crashed to the ground in a tangle of yard tools. "I didn't see you!" he continued excitedly.

"I-I think your cat's getting away," the teenager said.

The brunette cocked his head to the said as if comprehending what he was saying. After a moment, his eyes widened. "Ah-! Oh no, kitty~!"

"Hey, wait, be careful-" As the other tripped over a rake once again, he tumbled to the ground a second time, entangled in the mess he had previously created.

"Owww," he wailed once again, trying to prop himself up on his elbows. A garden hoe tipped and hit him squarely in the head.

At this point, the teenager in front of the mess was slightly amused and overwhelmingly baffled. "Hey wait, hold on," he said as the other once again tried to stand. He bent over and managed to untangle the tools from around his feet. "…There," he said finally, as all of the rakes and hoes were cleared from the ground and propped up back against the gray brick wall. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

"Nope!" he said happily, springing up from the ground once he was free. He looked like he was about to say something else when a cold gust cut across them both.

The teen wasn't that phased by the wind itself, but started slightly as the other shrieked and fell into shivers.

"Veee, it's so cold!" he whined pitifully. "We should go inside!"

"Ah," the teen paused awkwardly for a moment. "You go ahead." He shrank back slightly. It would be sensible to go inside, but where would he go? Back home? The idea was laughable.

"Ah, is your house around here?" the other asked.

"Um, no, not really…" he lied. The last thing he needed was some stranger to be worrying about him not wanting to return to his own house. He looked back up at the other, who had his head cocked, brunette hair falling to the side. Suddenly, his hand was grabbed and he was being pulled along. "What are you doing?"

"You should come with me! We'll go get dinner, ve? My treat! Just think of it as a 'thank you' for helping me out back there, okay?" The bright face turned back to smile at him, while he numbly let himself be pulled along. "My name's Feliciano, by the way!"

It took the two of them less than ten minutes to wind through the night crowd and end up at small table draped in checkerboard tablecloth. The restaurant was one that he had never been to – it was family-run, and though he didn't say so out loud, it smelled delicious. His stomach growled in agreement.

"The pasta here is the best!" Feliciano said cheerfully as he looked over the menu. The teen picked up his and skimmed over it, too.

"You… thank you for bringing me here," he said quietly. The brunette looked up from across the table.

"You don't have to thank me! You really saved me back there!" The teen didn't exactly consider picking up tools as "saving" someone, but he would let that pass. "And besides," Feliciano added quietly, making the other instantly pay attention, "you looked lonely."

"I'm not-"

"Ah! Waiter!" Feliciano suddenly called joyfully, waving his hands around. "We're ready to order!"

The teen sat back in his chair until the waiter had taken both of their orders, filled their glasses, and had left to the kitchens. "How did you know I was lonely?" he finally asked, toying with the cloth napkin. When he looked back up at the other, a smile was stretching across the brunette's face.

"Anyone in an alley when everybody else is having fun is sure to be lonely!" Well, there wasn't much arguing with that. "And that's no good. Everyone should be with friends and family! So, since you're my new friend, I decided we should eat pasta together!" He looked so sincere as he said it, that the teen couldn't even summon up skepticism.

"Thank you." He returned to the enthusiastic brunette.

"Besides! It looks like it's going to be cold tonight!" Feliciano added. "It wouldn't be good to stay out there!"

"I wasn't going to stay out there all night," he mumbled in reply. "I was just…" Just what? What was he going to say to the person in front of him? Was he going to lie "oh, I was just going back home," "I was walking to a friend's house," "my parents were going to pick me up." He was sick of lying; he had been doing it for years. Tonight, he had finally stopped lying to his parents, so was he going to start again with a stranger off the street? If he couldn't start telling the truth now, then what had he accomplished? Absolutely nothing.

And the stranger seemed nice, albeit a bit dense. There was nothing more left to lose; the ones that mattered most were already gone.

"I was staying away from home," he said finally. "My parents weren't thrilled when I told them I'm gay." An understatement, in his opinion. "My boyfriend isn't even in the country, otherwise I would stay with him. I guess-" he was cut off by Feliciano smacking both his hands on the tablecloth excitedly.

"Ah! Do you love him?" he asked with a huge grin, leaning towards him as if his answer was the most important in the world. The forward question caught him off-guard.

"I- yes- I mean, I just sacrificed everything for him… yes, of course I do." The brunette rocked back, seeming satisfied.

"Then there's nothing to worry about!" he exclaimed joyously.

"I love my family, too, you know," he pointed out in return. _Though they might not say the same anymore._

"Then it's even better." Happiness shone through Feliciano's eyes, and though he didn't understand, the teen felt himself trusting what he said.

"But… they both left me…" he said weakly.

"They will both come looking for you." The simple answers held little value in practical advice, but left him reassured all the same. "You just have to let them find you!"

"If… if you say so." The smiling face of the brunette made him want to smile too, and the teen politely excused himself to the restroom.

He braced himself on the sink and looked at his reflection. He was the same as ever, but for some reason, he felt like he was swelling. It was pleasant, and after a moment, he realized this feeling was acceptance. The friendly person sitting across from him had _accepted _him for being gay, for having a boyfriend.

And for the first time that night, a smile showed itself on his face.

It was still there when he sat back down with Feliciano, who only mirrored it with twice the intensity.

"My name's Nicolo, by the way."

"It's nice to meet you, Nicolo!"

The rigatoni was set at their table, and they both dug in. Conversation was light, but the teen was content with listening to the other talk excitedly about one thing or another. The wild, exaggerated gestures made Nicolo laugh, and the stories were light enough to let him slip away for just a bit. He was starting to forget anything but the present, when the door to the restaurant swung open. His parents walked in.

Nicolo was halfway out of his chair when a light touch on his wrist halted him. He looked down at Feliciano, who was still smiling, but his eyes held a seriousness he had not yet seen.

"I called them. I used your cell phone while you were in the restroom. I'm sorry! But they sounded really worried!"

A sense of betrayal cut through him as he looked from Feliciano to his parents. He couldn't face them now, it was too soon, it-

His mother ran up to him and clutched him tightly to her chest. He tried to angle himself to see her face, but stopped when he felt her shaking against him.

"You silly, silly child. How dare you hang up on us! I was so worried! I thought for sure that you would come home, but you didn't, and then… then I…" she trailed off and gripped him tighter, making quite a spectacle in the small restaurant. Nicolo didn't know how to react.

His father stepped into his line of sight, and set a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. Confusion was only one of the many emotions Nicolo held as he clutched his mother back, and looked up into the regretful eyes of his father.

"I…" he trailed off gruffly. "Nicolo, you know that this is your decision. I was just surprised, I should have never acted like that. I just wasn't expecting… I'm not used to…" he coughed uncomfortably. "We know what's best for you, but… so do you. And… I'm going to trust you on this."

"We thought you were going to come home to explain it to us, but you never did, and," his mother pulled him away to look at his face, "Nicolo, you can love whoever you want."

And they looked so sincere, that he believed it. Nicolo turned away from his parents to see Feliciano looking at him with his big smile.

"See? I told you it would be okay!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Veneziano stood outside the restaurant with Nicolo and his family.

"And thank you for calling us, I can't _believe _he wouldn't let us know where he was, we owe you so much…" his mother tearfully thanked the country, who simply smiled brightly in return.

"It was fun!" he said truthfully. Eating pasta with a friend was, by definition, one of the best things in the whole world.

Before his parents offered more praise to the cheerful country, Nicolo pulled him aside.

"I just wanted to say thanks for… well… I guess being my friend when I needed one," the teen said, blushing slightly. Veneziano laughed and attacked him in a hug. Nicolo hugged tightly back, and when they let go, the country grinned at him.

"I may not know your boyfriend, but I know he will come back for you! Even if it seemed like he left, it's not forever. You just have to wait a bit!"

"I know, it was just difficult… especially today," Nicolo admitted. "But thank you. And, hey, maybe I'll see you around sometime."

"Of course!" Veneziano answered excitedly. "And we'll eat pasta again!" Nicolo laughed and the smile he wore was most definitely real, Veneziano decided proudly.

As he watched the three of them walk away and the shops and restaurants begin to close for the night, Veneziano hummed to himself contentedly. The brisk wind once again howled overhead, and he noted that it was indeed going to be chilly tonight. He was glad that Nicolo was going home with his family.

Even if Nicolo had to wait for his love to return, he now had them to wait with. Veneziano glanced around a bit, and then sighed. It looked like he would have to ask Germany to help him find the kitty in the morning. Oh well, maybe it would be fun and not-cold. That would be nice.

Yes, Veneziano decided, glancing back at the retreating figures of his citizens, Nicolo would be fine as long as he had his family, like all affectionate Italians would be. It was just a given.

* * *

A/N: Everything I know about mainland Venice, I learned either from our amazing tour guide in Europe (who grew up in mainland Venice) or from visiting it myself. I personally think it's nice in itself, but I know that our tour guide was fairly cynical about it.

Next up, that sexy Frenchman we all love~ France!


	5. France

A/N: Irony is a main staple of my diet, along with angst and shounen-ai, in case you couldn't tell. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

_

* * *

_

The night was getting late as the rain came down steadily outside. Not that she really knew – there were no windows in her room. The curtains and beads and gaudy draperies were all for decoration, to give the space some comfort. Although, all the comfort her clients needed was purchased from her. No draperies were required for that…

Just a bed.

She tucked the wad of cash into her frilly undergarments and looked into a pocket mirror. Lipstick was pulled out and reapplied until her mouth was once again rimmed in crimson – the smears of past makeup around her mouth showed this was not the first application of that night. Her hair was mussed and tangled from her last visitor of the evening, but that wasn't anything new. In fact, it was expected of one of the up-and-comings of Paris' red light district. Perfectly formed curls and shiny straight strands were saved for the more expensive ladies; ones that didn't work in the dingy allies near the outskirts. Such a luxury would never be hers – she was one of the girls picked up off the street at sixteen. By then, drugs and cigarettes had been her soul mates for years already – now, she just added makeup to mask them and make a living for herself.

She knew that a "lady of the night" was a title too classy for her. No – as the heavy eyeliner that coated her lids, the glitter casually smeared over the copious amounts of bare skin, and the fishnets which disappeared under a ripped leather skirt indicated - she was a tramp. The cheap kind of prostitute who didn't care if condoms were involved or not. The kind that would disappear from the whore house because of diseases, and be replaced just as quickly.

The kind that needed this job.

The cold, hard truth had made itself known to her a long time ago – it seemed like a nagging family member one couldn't rid themselves of fast enough. She took a long, relaxing drag on her cigarette before snubbing it in the ashtray beside the bed and standing up, not bothering to adjust the skirt – it would be coming off soon again anyway.

The alley was bleak and cold, and the drizzle fell into her eyes, which stung once the cheap mascara ran into them. Other girls lined the walls, both older and younger than her, all looking sullen and beaten and dominant and submissive at the same time. A prostitute always knew how to be a number of things.

The night was far from over, but the customers were low. Hardly anyone ventured out into the weather to come here, much less pursue the goods at the back of the alley – where all of the more tainted ones were kept. She wouldn't be missing anyone if she left now, and with the wad of cash tucked tightly in her bra, a good idea of where she was going to go formed in her mind.

Her heels clacked on the wet pavement as she headed for that familiar bar. When was the last time she had had a good, long drink? Not in a while. Too long of a while. Staying up all night left little time for deviations from her "schedule." As of yet, she wasn't experienced enough to have any regular customers, but that would change, eventually. As for now, the influx of money was uncertain, so work and pleasure (both were the same to her, now) were her life. Or what her life was doomed to be. Either way was the truth, it just depended on how dramatic one preferred it. Being a blunt, straightforward girl, she tried to leave drama for the ones who could afford it.

Neon signs were reflected in the gravel-filled puddles, advertising liquor and good times to any of the passer-bys who happened to enter each establishment. The liquor was provided, the good times were relative. People still walked in the doors, though; sloshing through the rain to see their favorite mistress, or, even more commonly, their drug dealer. Sometimes the two were one in the same.

"Mon cheri, I believe you dropped this," said a soft voice behind her. She turned around quickly to see a man holding something out to her – it was her wallet – the flimsy fabric stained with water and mud. She snatched it back hurriedly and counted every bill inside, then checked for her IDs. Everything was still there, to her relief. She looked back up to the man, who had been watching her with some amusement.

"I am not so crass as to steal from a lady – in fact, I would never dream of such a thing." She noted that his uncut blonde hair fell perfectly in his face, even when soaked in the rain. He sported slight stubble on his chin, and the slight smirk on his face let her judge what type of man she was talking to.

"I'm not so much of a lady as you think I am," she answered. The returning smirk was forced, and the flirtations she was implying were far separated from how she really felt – she didn't want to sleep with this man, she wanted to be on her way. To the lukewarm bar, where there was a drink and a promise of forgetting the world for a little while waiting for her. But money was money, and it looked like she had found a willing customer, which was remarkable in this miserable weather. In order to keep living, she needed to work.

"Mademoiselle, you are simply trying too hard," he answered with a smile, which caught her off-guard. "May I extend an invitation to spend the night with me?"

"I charge by the hour," she replied flatly. She didn't know why, but this man was acting almost…cultured. Not like anyone who ever came to the red light district. It was a change, and was throwing her for a loop, which was an uncomfortable change. He simply smiled at her, his blue eyes glistening in the light of a neon sign blinking above them. The rain started to fall harder.

"That is no concern of mine, mon cheri." He offered his hand, which she accepted, looking into his face for the sign of a joke. This game was a new one. She wished she could wait until she knew the rules to play along, but in order to please, that was never an option. It was fortunate she was a quick learner. One had to be to survive on these streets.

"My room's a bit of a walk back. I hope you wouldn't mind accompanying me through the rain, Monsieur?" she said, adding in the playful tone at the end half-heartedly.

"Non, I would not have such a delicate flower exposed to such a storm – let me buy us a room." With that, he began to lead her down the street. She forced herself to clench tightly to his elbow and lean her head on his shoulder, like all prostitutes were expected to do. His cologne filled her nostrils.

'_He must really be new,_' she thought to herself. No one came into the district without reeking of alcohol, cigarettes, or both. More often than not, the smell of drugs would add its odor to those. She admitted it was refreshing, but just made her more cautious. Especially when the neon signs fell behind them to give way to more tasteful buildings. Hardly anyone was out on the streets here. Another block, and they had left the red light district completely. Unconsciously, she tightened her hold on the man, who simply smiled in response.

"Are you not used to the nicer side of Paris, cheri?" he asked, patting her head.

She bristled immediately, taking offense to a comment which could be taken a couple of ways. The truth was no, she wasn't – living as a prostitute kept her back in the alleys and streets. There was no need to venture beyond the familiar, and no need to endure the disdainful sneers and looks she would receive if she stepped onto the "normal" streets of Paris. There was no room for someone like her.

She clenched her mouth shut and shook her head, wanting to finish with this man as soon as possible.

He chuckled at her answer. "Here we are." The hotel he had chosen was not fancy, but certainly not like anything in the district. The paint was not peeling, and no tacky neon sign lit up the entrance. No air of lost dreams and melancholy hopes haunted this place. He held open the door for her, and she stepped awkwardly in. He had apparently already bought a room, because he swept her off to the stairs, pulling out a key when they reached the second floor. He once again held the door open for her, and when they had both stepped inside, gently closed it behind him. It was time for her job to begin.

She draped herself over him, not waiting for them to reach the bed. She bestowed lavish kisses on his lips and cheeks, trailing down to his neck and back. He responded in kind, but made no further advances. His kisses were soft and almost lazy. Confusion formed in her mind at the slow pace – it was unusual. By now, all of their clothes should be off and everything should be getting started. What was with this guy?

She pulled back to look at him, but he was just wearing the same, calm smile as he watched her. Something in her snapped.

"What are you doing?" she demanded angrily, stepping back from him. "What's your problem? You're paying me to be here – do you want to waste your money?"

He shook his head with the same expression on his face, as if enjoying a joke. "Mademoiselle, do you know why I brought you here?" he asked, turning his blue eyes back to hers once again.

She looked at him suspiciously for a moment, before fear started to cloud her thoughts. Men came to take away women all of the time from the streets. Oh god, was he kidnapping her? Was he one of those men who murdered prostitutes? She backed up, covering her mouth with her hands in terror. She wasn't overreacting – the stories on the streets were of similar cases. One of her friends had been killed the same way – it was that event which had made her grow up to face the real world. This was a real danger.

"No, no, mon cheri, I am not going to hurt you," he assured her quickly, hastily backtracking. "I would not do such a thing. I'm not here to do _anything _to you, in fact."

Her hands dropped from her mouth enough so she could respond. "Then…then why did you bring me here?" She was still not going near him, but he stepped forward and took her hands in his larger, warmer ones.

"Mademoiselle, you are not fit for selling yourself on the streets."

She slapped him. "How dare you!" she shouted, once again stepping back out of his reach. Outrage filled her veins. Tacked on to the end of that was something that felt akin to panic, but she ignored that ugly feeling. "That is absolutely none of your business. If you wasted my time to lecture to me, I'm leaving."

"Please, cheri, don't. You are beautiful."

Those words stopped her in her tracks. In the time she had worked in the red light district, no one had ever told her such a thing. It was a foreign concept, meant for people other than her. She was just another ragged woman on the street for sale. Beauty didn't exactly apply to that image. "I-I don't know what kind of game you're trying to play, but I won't repent for my 'sins' or whatever other shit you think I should do."

"I would never dream of asking you to. Be it far from me to consider lovemaking a sin." He chuckled to himself once again. "But, mon cheri, it is not something that can be an occupation. It is done for passion and romance."

Her stomach dropped for some reason. "Romance doesn't buy food," she answered coldly. "Don't talk to me about something that you can't understand."

He stopped her from leaving this time, stepping in front of the door before she could grasp the handle. "I may not understand, but realize this – it is such a waste to see one such as you commit yourself to a life such as this."

"That's my decision."

"You're too beautiful to-"

"Stop it!" she shouted, hugging herself as she backed away once again. "Stop calling me that! You have no idea what beauty is!" It certainly wasn't her – someone who was tainted by hundreds of men. Someone who lived on the streets and in a dark little bedroom off of an alley. Someone who relied on the lift of drugs and alcohol to get by from day to day. "You know nothing about me! How dare you judge me!"

The man held up both hands in front of him in an open gesture. "I assure you, belle, I would never dream of judging you."

"Don't call me that!" she screamed. "Don't call me _anything_. I'm not pretty, I'm not beautiful, I'm not your 'dear' or 'mademoiselle.' I'm a _whore!_ I'm so far away from those things that it's hardly conceivable! I'll _never _be anything like b-beautiful…" Tears started to run down her cheeks, and she was honestly surprised at the sensation. Years of living in the cold, unforgiving streets had hardened her. When was the last time she had cried? Before she left her house? Before her parents had let her go?

Without really knowing what she was doing, she stumbled over to the man and buried her face in his shirt, clenching fistfuls of fabric in her hands. She cried into the material. He simply comforted her as she sobbed into him – this stranger, who she had met only half an hour ago. He rubbed her shoulders and rocked her back and forth slightly, saying nothing.

"I-I left because m-my parents… and school… couldn't a-a-afford…" Her words were punctuated by sobs. He listened quietly, and she was sure he couldn't actually understand what she was trying to say, but it didn't matter – finally, she was telling somebody something she didn't realize she needed to tell. It didn't matter that he was a stranger – he actually acted like he _cared… _"N-never liked m-me… c-could'nt do _anything_… n-n-never any good, or s-smart, or worth a _damn_…" Syllables tumbled past her lips until even she couldn't understand what she was saying anymore.

He let her cry for a few more minutes before gently coaxing her over to a chair in the corner. When she had sat down, he kneeled in front of her and looked up into her face.

"May I ask your name, so I can call you something? All of my names for you so far seem to have caused you discomfort."

She hiccuped slightly as she looked down at him with tear-blurred vision. Even in this view he looked handsome. "I-it's Oiseau."

He nodded to himself, seeming satisfied. "It suits you," he murmured. He sat gazing up at her for a moment more before speaking again. "Little 'bird,' don't you think it's time to fly out of the cage you've made for yourself?"

Tears filled her eyes once again at his words. "I can't do anything else," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm going to die if I can't get money."

He smiled up at her once again, but this time it was tinged with sadness. "I'm sorry that your view of yourself is so low. Don't you think you have more worth than that?" He pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ears.

Her reply was even quieter. "No."

He frowned for the first time that night. "Well, you are very wrong. A lovely lady like yourself has no need for the business you're involved in now. The whole rest of your life is waiting for you, and you're going to live it like this? Non."

"I don't understand," she murmured, still huddled into herself.

"I don't expect you to. Not now, at least." The man patted her hand and raised himself to his feet. "You will stay and sleep here for tonight. Don't worry," he said at the look that crossed her face, "I am paying for everything." She nodded slowly. He bent over and kissed her forehead. "Mon cheri, you really are too beautiful, Oiseau."

She didn't argue. Sitting there in front of this man she had just met, she began to believe it was true. Another tear trailed slowly down her face.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

France made his way down to the lobby after quietly closing the door behind him, making sure Oiseau was asleep before leaving. The girl had crawled under the hotel's comforter without protest and had fallen into a deep slumber – one which the country was willing to bet she hadn't experienced in a good long while.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," he said, heading over to the counter where the manager of the hotel was standing. "I want to know if you have any job openings currently."

The man looked at him in mild surprise, probably not used to getting job requests at such an hour of the night. "Why, sure – we're always looking for help in the kitchens. Pretty much anyone can clean dishes, we figure, so we're not picky."

France nodded with a smile. "Would you, good sir, mind offering the job to the young lady staying in room 106 once she wakes up in the morning? I'm sure she would be happy to accept it."

"That's no problem, but it doesn't pay that much. Are you sure that she'll be okay with that?"

France nodded, certain of his answer. "I believe that she'll be using it to springboard herself into much greater things. She is a remarkable girl, after all. You'll be quite happy to have her." Maybe he had no evidence to back up his last two claims, but he was still sure of what he said; any girl that could hold that much pain and sadness inside her was sure to be remarkable. It was sad, but very, heart-breakingly true.

"Well, thanks for the recommendation. I'll be sure to ask her. Do you need a room, sir?"

"No, no thank you. I'll be taking my leave for tonight." France nodded to the manager and stepped out of the hotel, to where the sun was just starting to light up the sky above Paris. The man sighed and set off down the sidewalk, stepping delicately around the puddles that had formed from last night's rain. A bird chirped overhead, and the country looked up to watch it fly from a building toward the sunrise.

He shook his head to himself, an amused smile playing across his features. All French were quite remarkable, really, he thought to himself. It was no surprise that Oiseau was sure to be fine, considering her excellent heritage. And who was better, really, to save such remarkable beauty than himself?

* * *

A/N: So... I'm sorry for starting to get slower and slower on the updates. College is starting to catch up, now that the quarter is in its home stretch. In another three weeks, I have finals... Oh god. XD My first set of finals, yay for being a freshman! (Not really. OTL) I hope you liked this chapter, it was actually the first idea that popped into my mind before starting this series. As always, thanks for reading! Review if you liked, please!

China is next, aru!


	6. China

A/N: There are just some chapters that are easier to write than others, and I have to say that this flowed fairly smoothly. Which is lovely, since I have exams in less than a week!

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend aru.

* * *

Day one was the worst night of his life.

Day two he didn't remember much from. In fact, he hardly remembered the entire week after.

The next week felt numb in his memory. He remembered that it was when he began to speak to others in neighboring cells. They were friendly enough. No one asked him why he was there.

A month in he had made what he thought of as a "friend." He had met him during the exercise period. They had talked a little before the other the other had introduced himself as "Duyi." Every now and then, during the meal times, they would eat side by side in silence. Duyi spoke a little about his family and his previous life before being shut in cold steel.

Four weeks after that, he heard from one of the guards that Duyi had been moved. When he had asked them where, one simply replied "Somewhere he won't be coming back from."

After the first year, he stopped trying to make conversation.

After the fifth, he stopped talking altogether.

After the seventh, he stopped caring.

The Qincheng Prison was a cold building. In both senses of the word. The temperature was kept relatively low to save expenses. The attitudes were kept relatively low to quell the small talk of rebellion. Even so, it still managed to whittle a notch into most conversations, but never to be taken seriously. An entertaining idea, a token of amusement. Something to give a dry laugh and cause glares to roam over the guards.

He ignored this folly. There was no escaping. The prison itself was surrounded by any number of brick walls, barbed wire, chain link fences, guard towers. By now, he knew how the prison worked. The schedule of the guards. The shift in currents when the electrical fences had to be maintained. It didn't matter.

He could not get out, and was not stupid enough to try.

The morning outside was dreary. No window in his cell allowed him to see the weather, but he knew all the same. The air was sticky with humidity, and the guards coming in from the outside had their uniforms three shades darker from the wet. After awhile, one knew how to look for information.

He knew that today was an inspection day. It happened twice a year, and was always the same. A government official would be escorted through by the guards, the prisoners would be on their best behavior. The official would look at the people housed in the cells, then leave to examine the security and conditions of the dormitories where the more minor criminals were kept. It was normal, it was familiar. It was routine.

It had happened the same way for the past eleven years he had been here, and wasn't going to change.

He stood from his bed, went over to the sink in his cell, and washed his face. The man looked up at the wall clock, which by its hands read 5:30 in the morning hours. It was too early yet to be called to wake up. He sat back down on the bed and tilted his face to the ceiling. Eleven years? How the time had passed… He grimaced in the dark. It had passed with him sitting here in this cell, working in the prison yards, listening to the detention leaders speak of better behavior and reform.

It was all useless.

His cell's overhead lights flickered to life. The man slowly opened his eyes; curiosity tugging at the ends of his mind. It was too early to wake up the inmates yet. This visit must be for something else.

"Sorry to wake you," one of the guards gruffly said. He offered no further explanation as to why he was here.

The man did not answer, but looked behind the guard that had entered. Another guard stood there, accompanying a shorter man next to him, who was dressed in nearly traditional clothing. It was almost anachronistic for the high-technology stainless steel prison.

This man stepped into the enclosure. Now that he was able to get a good look at him, the prisoner could see the long brunette hair tied neatly and the hard brown eyes that swept around the room. He didn't look like a government official, but the prisoner didn't know what else he could be. Their eyes met once he seemed done looking over the cell.

"Hello," he greeted, "I have come from the capital to survey the prison conditions and to confirm everything is functioning up to standards." The prisoner said nothing; slowly, he turned his head away to look at the wall. The man in traditional wear folded his hands behind his back. "Do you find that you are comfortable here, aru?"

Aru? The prisoner supposed that, at one point, he would have been amused by the verbal tick. Presently, he remained motionless and voiceless.

"It is your duty as a resident here to answer," one of the guards said shortly.

"No, let him be, aru," the official said, looking at the both of them. "Forcing an answer will not be receiving his true opinion. Please respect that."

The guards were intelligent enough not to look stricken at his countermand. They both bowed their heads. The official watched them leave the cell, and once again turned to the prisoner.

"I thank you for your time, and regret that you were not able to speak more clearly about what bothers you, aru." He left.

The prisoner stood from his bed and walked to the cell door. His eyes followed the path of the guards and their escort, before he sank slowly back onto the white mattress. How entertaining that the other man thought he was bothered.

It only took until the next day to forget about the encounter entirely. The prisoner woke up mechanically once the lights were turned on and the whistle blasted, and began to tread to the door.

It opened for him, like usual, but this time there was a guard waiting for him. "Come with me, please," he said briefly, and motioned for the man to walk in front of him. "To the first floor."

The prisoner stared dully ahead as they descended the staircases. They passes other cells, other inmates, all starting to wake up. The prisoner wasn't interested.

The office they entered was not one he was familiar with, but he didn't look around. He was seated at a plastic gray chair in the middle of the rooms, and a cord was wound around one its legs, and then around his ankle. He was not going anywhere. The guard spoke quietly into his receiver, and then stood against one of the walls. The prisoner sat in stony silence.

After a minute, the door to the office opened. "Hello again, aru," said a voice behind him. The prisoner did not turn his head, but wondered idly why the official from Beijing had returned. "You may leave now," he directed the guard, before sitting in another chair in the prisoner's line of vision. The door clicked shut after the guard, and the official clasped his hands.

"After consideration, aru, I realized that you might not have said anything the other day because you were nervous about speaking in front of your guards, aru. But it is just you and I, so you will be able to say what you like about Qincheng, aru, without being intimidated." He cocked his head expectantly. "If you have complaints, I will be sure to have them acknowledged by the prison, aru."

The prisoner stared at the ground, his hands unclenched in his lap. There was a silence in the room that seemed to swim about their heads. Neither said anything for a moment.

"Do you have anything to speak about, aru?" The other's voice came softly, and, the prisoner admitted to himself, it was much more pleasant to listen to than the hard, short statements of the guards'. But he stayed still, staring at the gray speckles of the cement floor.

"I see," he said once again softly, before rising. His oriental robes fell about him as he straightened. "I thank you for your time, aru." And he left. It was a moment before the guard entered and escorted him back to his cell. He acquiesced without a thought, but while they walked back up the stairs, all he could think of was the soft voice.

'_I thank you for your time, aru._'

Two days later he came again. The cell door creaked open, and when the prisoner lifted his eyes, he saw the government official standing there in his traditional clothes, hands hidden beneath their long sleeves.

"Good morning, aru." He inclined his head in greeting, then motioned to the empty chair against the wall. "May I?"

The prisoner stared at him incredulously before turning his face stonily to the floor. The sound of rustling fabric indicated the other sitting down.

"Would you like to talk about the prison?" The man was met with silence.

"Would you like to talk about living conditions, aru?" The prisoner's face remained downturned, his jaw remained clenched. There was silence in the cell.

After minutes of not saying anything, the prisoner once again heard the ruffle of cloth. Was he leaving? His eyes strayed over to where the other man sat comfortably, pulling out something from a pocket. It was a small book. The prisoner stared as the man turned a page, and leaned back in the chair, calmly reading.

They stayed like that as the clock on the wall ticked, one reading, one watching. When the long-haired man shut his book an hour later, the prisoner jumped and looked away again. The silence was broken.

"I thank you for your time, aru," he said, and left – the prisoner looking after him as he shut the cell door.

For the next three days, he came again at the exact same time. The man would ask a question or two, which the prisoner would ignore, and then pull out a book and quietly read. At the end of each of these visits, he would always smile and say the same thing.

"_Thank you for your time, aru_."

On the fourth day, the man entered like usual. He asked a question and then, when ignored, quietly took his seat and opened a book. The prisoner, like always, sat on his cot and watched him.

Suddenly, the silence was unexpectedly broken.

"Why are you here?" The words hung in the air as both regarded each other. For a long moment, the prisoner thought that the question was his own – as he had been wondering it for so long – but the other man stared at him as if expecting an answer.

For the first time, he gave one.

"I killed a man," he said, staring blankly at the other, even though his heart was pounding. It was like a confession all over again. The other tilted his head thoughtfully.

"You don't seem like the type," he said finally.

"You don't know me."

"No, aru, but I would like to."

Every day after he came to visit, the prisoner would talk when he asked a question. The traditionally-dressed official would sit in the chair, hands folded politely in his lap, and listen. He never interrupted, and, when the prisoner would lapse into silence, either inquire as to something else, or let the other start on a whole new topic entirely.

The prisoner began to look forward to the visits – to the break in prison monotony. The last time it had been pleasant to speak to someone was… was years ago, when he had still harbored hope. Now, it was rekindling – the small warmth was something he hadn't felt in years. It was because of the man who sat in his dark cell each day, and quietly listened, and didn't judge him about whether or not he had gone to college, or what jobs he had held before jail. He asked questions about his family, about his likes and dislikes. He showed more interest than anyone had for the last eleven years.

And it warmed him inside.

A day two weeks later, the man walked in gracefully, like always; the prisoner was waiting, knees folded up against his chest as he sat on the mattress.

"What is your name?" he questioned before the other had even locked the door behind him. "I… I've been talking to you all this time and I don't know your name."

After the door had been locked, the long-haired man turned around slowly, looking thoughtful. "It's not really needed, aru." The man shrugged. "But my name is Wang Yao." He seated himself, allowing the crimson robe he was wearing today to drape over the sides of the chair. "Now, aru, the question is, do _you_ have a name?"

The prisoner was taken aback. "I thought you would have looked it up, or asked the guards for it." The other shook his head.

"It is your name, and it belongs to you. I have no business in knowing it unless you let me, aru."

For some reason, the prisoner's small flicker of hope grew. He owned his name? He still owned something? Even if he was trapped here? For the past eleven years, referred to as a number, he thought that even his name had been taken away. But then, this man was saying something else…

He slid off his bed to stand and bow to the brunette.

"My name is Chung Guoliang. It is nice to meet you, Wang Yao." And for the first time since they had spoken, a smile spread onto Yao's face.

"It was accidental, wasn't it?" he said quietly to Guoliang. "The killing?"

Guoliang started where he stood, then sat back down heavily on the bed. It felt like something freezing cold had taken a hold of his windpipe. Silence pervaded the room. He let his face fall into his hands.

"So what if it was?" His voice came out shakier than he would have liked it to. His fingers raked through his hair as he hid his eyes. "It… it doesn't matter, does it? I'm still here, I'm still trapped here. So it should just be called a murder… right? Right?" Something inside of him was straining, and he knew what it was. It was the little rope that kept words like "justice" and "not fair" and "accident" from breaking into his thoughts. He had… he had _killed _another person; what did it matter if it was an accident or not? He was in jail, he would still be in jail even if he had tried to convince the court that he didn't mean to, that he was innocent, that it wasn't his fault, that he was so sorry…

The light tap of slippers on the cement broke through his thoughts, and Guoliang looked up to see Yao standing in front of him.

"You still feel guilty, aru, even after all of this time…" Delicate fingers brushed away his hands to get a better look at Guoliang. Guoliang looked back up at him desperately. _Please say it, please, I need to hear it…_

"It's not your fault, Guoliang."

And the rope holding back everything snapped.

If asked, he wouldn't be able to say how long he had sat there, tears running into his fists with Yao standing next to him, a hand resting on his head. He remembered everything coming out in a jumble – how he hadn't _meant_ for it to happen – they were just having fun – he tossed the book as a joke – his friend was standing near the stairs – he never _wanted _him to lose his balance – his wife screaming murder as she saw the bloodied, broken body – but it was an _accident…_

The entire while, Wang Yao stood there, not saying a word. He remembered feeling tired from the long, tearful explanation, and lying down to curl up on the cot. He remembered Yao saying something softly as he left the cell, and then falling asleep, hiding his tear-streaked face in the pillow.

The next day, Wang Yao didn't come back.

The day after that was the same.

For the next two weeks, prison life slowly became the same, monotonous drone that it had been. Guoliang was okay with that – he was comfortable with the routine. And now… he resumed it with something more. He had hope. He experienced forgiveness for what he had done. He didn't resent the brunette for not coming back. The prisoner missed him terribly, but was just content to think of what had transpired. The man had his own life – he couldn't be expected to just sit in a jail cell for hours every day. Everything came to an end eventually.

One month later, a prison guard opened his cell door. Guoliang stood up from his bed slowly, wondering what was going on. The guard cleared his throat, and then offered up a handful of documents for him to see.

"We have received a writ of release for you. Number ninety-nine-twenty… I mean," he looked at the top paper quickly, "…Chung Guoliang. You are free to go."

He stared at the papers in the man's gloved hands, before reaching out to take them. He held them delicately, as if they might crumble from his touch.

"Along with this came a message through the fax," the guard continued, ignoring the way Guoliang's hands trembled visibly. "We were requested to tell you 'Thank you for your time.' We don't know what it means, but maybe you do."

Guoliang looked up at the guard, and felt the first real smile that had rested upon his face in eleven years. It felt unusual, unnatural… but right.

He walked out of the prison that day with his head held high, and he kept the smile.

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China handed the documents to a secretary for her to fax. "Which prison are these being sent to?" she asked, flipping through the pages.

"Qincheng, aru." She bowed and walked away swiftly, heading towards her office. Once she was out of sight, he sighed and brushed a stray hair off of his robe. He had stayed at the prison for much longer than expected – his work had absolutely piled up here while he was gone. Not to mention the extra stress of pressuring his boss to release Guoliang.

_"I can't just sign for his release, when there was no evidence to support that it was an accident and with the case already closed,"_ his boss had told him. _"What if he was lying to you, and simply told you that? He knew you were some important person, he might have been trying to get you to do exactly what you're doing now."_

_"He has been in there for eleven years under false charges,"_ China had said shortly, but respectfully_. "Please acknowledge the fact that I, as your country, will know if one of my citizens is lying or not."_

His boss hesitated_. "Very well,"_ he finally conceded. _"I…I know you are right. Bring the release papers to the law department,, I will have my secretary tell them to sign."_

China had bowed with a quick "_Thank you, aru,_" and left. In all honesty, China had no idea why he had supported Guoliang so adamantly. After four thousand years and seeing billions of his people come and go… the country was fairly baffled at his interest in the silent prisoner. But that was in the past, and now Guoliang would be free. The ancient nation thoughtfully picked at his sleeves as he walked down the hallway. Yes… Guoliang should be released within the week. For some reason, it made him inexplicably content. The feeling was nice – sometimes he felt so jaded to the simplicities of the world. This was pleasant. He chuckled to himself lowly at the irony he had placed in Guoliang's name. "May the country be kind," hm? It seemed like he had been blessed with a lucky name from the start. At least, in this case.

The country turned the corner heading to the department that dealt in the law and court. Guoliang would be released, but then… what? Would he go to his family? Be able to find a job? Even more importantly, would he forgive himself?

China sighed and ran a hand through his bangs, lifting them off his face. Guoliang would be fine; he was Chinese, and every person in China would be able to, without a doubt, find their place when they needed to.

* * *

A/N: For the record, I researched the different Chinese jails and this one seemed to mesh the best with the story. Some things were purposefully not described to let you guys do the imagining!

Thanks to everyone for sticking with the story so far, and sorry for getting slower and slower on updates; I take my time because I want to make sure that each one is decent. Reviews are read and loved as if they were my adopted children. Help me reach my goal of being the ultimate adopto-mom!

Next up is... um... well, I can't honestly remember... but I'm sure you'll like it! ...Hmmm...


	7. Canada

A/N: Hey everybody! I'm leaving for London tomorrow, so I'm actually updating early for you all since I won't be back in time for Christmas. I won't have internet access for at least three weeks. OTL

On another note, I am absolutely blown away. You guys are absolutely wonderful with the reviews! ;w; I honestly don't deserve all the praise that you're lathering on me (and it's making my ego swell.) XD I've noticed that some of you when you review are suggesting different ideas for different countries - please keep doing so! I may already have something planned, or I may be flying without a clue - either way, I love to read what you guys think a certain country will do, or suggest a character's problems.

Without further ado, I present Canada~ (...who?)

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

* * *

He stood on the sidelines of the rink, quietly watching as other kids slid by. No one paid any attention to him, but he was okay with that. Small hands clenched around his hockey stick, making the boy's knuckles turn white. He bit his lip while chanting a mantra in his head.

'_Just go on the ice just go on the ice you'll never get better if you don't practice so go on the ice._'

His feet shuffled awkwardly under him, the blades of the skates scuffing up the floor. The boy finally swallowed loudly and toed the edge of the rink. See? He was already halfway there…

A teenager slid by, his skates showering the boy with sleet. The child stumbled back away from the ice, dropping his hockey stick in surprise.

"Oh, hey, sorry kid," the teen called. "You okay?"

The boy shut his eyes and nodded furiously, fumbling around to pick up his stick. He could feel the blush tingling its way across his face. The teen shrugged and skated away, leaving him alone. The boy watched him go, then let a small sigh escape before bending over to unlace his skates. Once again, he hadn't set foot on the ice.

Frustration welled up in the child's chest as he tugged at the laces. Team tryouts were _tomorrow_ and he hadn't practiced at all. Every day that week he had been dropped off by his mother, and every day he had stared down at the rink, biting his lip and willing himself to just take the needed step onto it… But then he would look up, and see all of the others skating around the rink, and realize how _big _some of them were and how _good _they were and he would fiddle with his stick in anxiety before giving up and going to wait in the lobby for his mom to pick him up two hours later.

He tied his skates together by the laces and hung then around his neck, then picked up his hockey stick and trudged out of the rink arena, head down. It felt like everyone was watching him as he walked slowly into the lobby and out the front doors of the arena. He would walk home today, the child decided. He didn't want to sit there in the lobby and think about the tryouts he _wouldn't_ be going to tomorrow. His home was only two blocks away, so he knew the way there. His mom might be mad at him for going alone but he would rather be yelled at for being brave and walking home by himself than be yelled at by himself for being a coward.

It was cold outside. It would be weird if it wasn't cold, the boy thought glumly as he stuffed his small gloved hands in his pockets. It was winter, and winters in Ottawa were very very _very _cold. In school, he had learned that other places far away were warmer in winter, and some were even like summer. He had never been to one of those places before, and, truthfully, the boy wasn't certain if he wanted to. After all, how could a place that's warm all year have ice for hockey players to skate on? What if they didn't even have _hockey teams_? The thought struck him as so weird that he shook his head to clear it. But…

Seeing as how he couldn't even get _on _the ice in the first place, he might be one of those people who _belonged _in a warm place… the thought made the child extremely depressed. He didn't _want _to live in a warm place; it just wasn't right to not have it be cold outside, and warm and cozy inside. He always loved the feeling of walking into warm buildings after being outside for a long time; the heat would make his skin tingle comfortably, and his fingers would be able to feel again, and he loved it.

But he knew that he wouldn't enjoy walking through the door into his home this time. The boy would be too ashamed to say anything to his mother, and he would be quiet all throughout dinner, and then when it was bedtime he would trudge up the stairs and bury his head in the pillow and think of the hockey tryouts that were the next morning that he wouldn't be attending. He bit his lip as his boot clumsily caught itself on a pile of snow. The boy yelped as he felt himself falling, and threw out his hands to break his fall. They slipped as they touched the ground, and he ended up landing on his chest on the sidewalk.

"Mmff," he mumbled in effort as he sat up. The boy wasn't actually hurt – his winter coat was filled with down, and the padding cushioned his fall with ease – but it was still embarrassing. He looked around for where his skates and hockey stick had landed when they had flown out of his hands. The child saw them a couple feet away from the sidewalk, sitting on a gray patch of snow.

He stood up to brush himself off but stopped, horrified, as a sign came into view behind a pile of snow. It was small and wooden, and almost completely covered by snow drifts. The child had seen it clearly often enough to know what was said under the frost: "_Goose Public Park, owned by the city of Ottawa._" He looked back at what he had thought was gray snow prior to seeing the sign. That wasn't snow – it was ice. In the summers, the pond would be thawed and home to many different water birds, like the ducks his mother would sometimes take him to feed. Now, it was frozen over, half-covered in sleet.

And on top of the ice was where his skates and stick were resting.

He chewed his lip nervously as he looked over the pond. His parents had taught him relentlessly to never go on unmarked ice, and in school they had the teachers remind them at the beginning of every season to be careful around ice. Guest speakers had come to talk about hypothermia and pneumonia which patients had died from in the past, because they had fallen through into the freezing water. The child looked around – no one was in sight to yell at him. That also meant that no one was close enough to save him if he fell through. The boy cast big eyes back over the pond. His skates and hockey stick were lying there, unmoving. He flexed his gloved fingers as he debated furiously with himself. The boy knew it was dangerous and his mom would _kill _him if she ever found out but they were right there and really close to the edge and he didn't weigh much after all but it could be really thin ice and he could catch hypothermia and die just like everybody always said but _they were right there._

The child took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had been a coward once today – he wouldn't be able to take it if he was a coward again. The boy stepped off the sidewalk to edge down to the rim of the frozen pond. He measured the distance; all it would need was a couple steps onto the ice and he could reach them. Just a couple steps… He lifted his foot.

"H-hang on there, eh!" The man seemed to appear out of nowhere as he shot out an arm to grab the boy's hood, sending them both stumbling back a bit into the snow bank.

The boy fell back and landed with a muffled thud onto the powdery ground. Confused and slightly rattled, he looked up to see the person who had grabbed him standing next to him and wiping his forehead with relief. Dark and slightly wavy blonde hair framed the man's face along with a rounded pair of glasses. When he looked down at the boy, the child noticed that his eyes were a dark shade of lavender.

"Are you okay?" he asked concernedly, crouching down next to the boy. His voice was soft now that there was no immediate danger, but the child shrank back, ready to be yelled at for thinking of going on the ice. The man gave him a once over with his eyes, making sure everything seemed fine before turning back to the pond.

The boy watched quietly as the man unwound his scarf and tied the end of it into a loop. He seemed to judge the distance carefully before tossing the makeshift lasso out onto the ice. It landed roughly a foot away from where his equipment sat, but the man simply reeled the scarf back in and gently threw it again.

It took two more tries before the fabric settled itself perfectly over the toe of an ice skate. He let out a small sound of triumph. The boy, who was now standing slightly behind the man and watching intently, sucked in a breath. Carefully, the other tugged the scarf, catching the skates on the edge of the hockey stick and sliding the bundle towards the edge.

When it was close enough to reach, he leaned over and picked the skates and stick off the pond surface. The boy dropped his shoulders with relief as he was handed them. "I actually learned that trick from my brother awhile ago," the man said, untying his scarf and wrapping it back around his neck. "I never quite got the hang of it, but I guess the practice ended up paying off after all, eh?" He looked down at the boy and smiled.

The boy ducked his head, embarrassed at needing the help. "Th-thank you," he said shyly. He held the hockey stick close to him, relieved beyond end that it was safe now. The man noticed and cocked his head to one side.

"You weren't going to skate out on this ice, were you?" he asked, knitting his eyebrows together. When the boy shook his head, he nodded seriously. "Good, I'm glad. I'm not positive that it would've broken, but…" He walked over to the edge of the ice and tentatively rested his boot on top. There was a sharp crackling noise, and both watched as spidery patterns etched themselves into the frozen water. He removed his boot with a sigh as the boy stared at the cracks.

He really could've fallen in, the child realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He clutched to his hockey stick even tighter as the man turned to look at him. "I-I wasn't going to ice skate on there…" he muttered quietly. He felt so uncomfortable with strangers, but this one had basically saved his life so… he couldn't be that bad. "I was walking home from the a-arena…" His voice dropped until no sound came out. The other smiled kindly at his shyness.

"Oh? Did you have fun skating there?"

It felt horrible to shake his head, but the boy was too flustered to lie. "N-no." He bit his lip. "I…" He took a deep breath. "Iwastoonervoustogoontheice," the boy spit out rapidly, then blushed and buried his face into his coat. It felt even worse to admit it to someone else, and he hung his head in shame.

The man looked confused. "You were nervous?" he repeated. When the boy nodded slowly he laughed lightly, causing the child to flinch. But instead of the ridicule he had expected, the man kneeled down next to him and looked up into his face. "Do you know how to ice skate?"

"Only a little…" he whispered. "But… I was trying to practice because…" he felt his lower lip tremble as the frustration that he had been holding back began to bubble up in his chest. It took all of the strength he had accumulated over his eight years to not sob. "The hockey team tryouts are _tomorrow _and I don't know how to do anything! I've been trying to practice this whole time but there are so many people around and they're all gonna watch…" he trailed off and scrubbed at the tear that had rolled down his face.

"You don't want people to see you practice?" The boy shook his head at the man's question. The man stood up and seemed to contemplate an idea for a moment before looking back down at him. "Are your parents expecting you back soon?" As the boy shook his head, the man offered his hand. "Then I think I might have an idea, eh?"

The boy stared at the hand, then slowly, hopefully, tipped his head up to see the man's face. "Really?"

The other smiled again. "If you're willing to give it a shot." The boy, seeming satisfied with his answer, slid his small gloved hand into the larger one being offered.

"My name's Ethan," the boy told him quietly as they walked away from the park. The man picked his way over a snow drift and made sure Ethan made it over safely before answering.

"My name's Matthew. It's just up there." He pointed to the end of the block, where there was a family-run grocery store and old newspaper stand. Ethan furrowed his eyebrows with skepticism.

"But what's up there?" he asked, picking up his feet higher to clear the fallen snow without tripping.

"The perfect place, I think," Matthew answered, still looking ahead. The two walked a little more down the sidewalk before his eyes lit up. "Aha, here it is."

Ethan was fairly perplexed as the man led him behind the green grocer's store to what looked like an abandoned parking lot. There was a dumpster on the side, and the run-down cement was hidden by the back of the store on one side and a grove of trees on the other. Nothing special about it stood out to him. Why would Matthew have brought him here-?

Ethan's feet slid out from under him, and he yelped as the other quickly caught him under the arms before he hit the pavement, which, Ethan realized with awe, was solid ice.

"Haha, be careful," Matthew said with a smile as he lowered Ethan slowly to sit on the ground. The child stared up at him in awe. "It's maybe not as big as a normal rink, but it's pretty private out here, so no one will see you practicing if you don't want them to."

Ethan accepted the skates that were being handed to him and grinned. "It's perfect!" he exclaimed. "How did you find this place?"

The man shrugged, looking embarrassed. "I just keep my eye out for things. It's nothing special…"

Ethan nearly shook with excitement. A private practice spot! He would never have to worry about anybody seeing him fall, or loose the puck, or miss the goal… Well, except for the man next to him. Ethan looked back up at the man who was now saying something quietly about the ice as he looked out over the makeshift rink. The eight-year-old couldn't quite explain it, but he didn't mind if Matthew saw him not be perfect. It just seemed okay to him – it almost felt like nobody at all would be watching.

"What do you think, eh?" Matthew looked back down to the boy. "Should we use the dumpster as the goal, or try to figure something else out?"

And Ethan, painfully shy and quiet Ethan, looked up at the man with an unabashed grin that was so open and trusting that it made the other blush slightly.

"I like your idea," Ethan said with conviction. He tied his laces with finality and shakily stood up, clinging to Matthew for support as his blades felt the taste of ice for the first time. "Now I wanna skate!"

It was easier than he thought it would be, Ethan realized as he skated slowly around the ice. The trickiest part had been not letting his feet get ahead of him on the slippery surface. After he had gotten the hang of _not _falling on his rear, Matthew had handed him the hockey stick. He worked with Ethan slowly but patiently, showing the child the best way to keep balance while in control of the puck. The man mimicked the motions of twisting his body to show Ethan how to turn quickly. It was hard work, and Ethan just _knew _that he would have a bruise where he had accidentally skated into the dumpster (_"Oh my god, are you okay?" _Matthew had asked as he had scrambled over to where Ethan was sitting, blinking owlishly) but truthfully, the child was having the time of his life. He was learning how to play _hockey_! And he was actually getting good at it! When he scored that first goal, slamming the puck into the metal side of the dumpster to make it resound noisily, Ethan cried out triumphantly, pumping a small, gloved fist into the air. He whirled on the ice to grin at Matthew, who was grinning back just as enthusiastically.

"That was great!" the man exclaimed, sliding over the where the boy stood trembling, gripping his stick tightly. But this time, instead of fear and worry at others laughing at him, he trembled with barely-suppressed pride and excitement at his own new-found abilities. The feeling was enough to overpower the eight-year-old.

"My first goal!" he said breathlessly. "Ever! Ever ever!" He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and tipped his head up again to see Matthew.

"Should we take a break, eh?" he asked, then laughed as Ethan shook his head quickly. He had just scored his first goal, he wanted to practice more and more and more-

His stomach growled loudly, making Ethan jump a bit before blushing furiously. The older man just smiled.

"Let's get something to eat." At Ethan's desperate look, he chuckled. "And then we can come back out to practice more. I promise," he said, holding one gloved hand up in an oath. Ethan took that hand and looked up at the man. He felt a bit of the shyness return as a light pink dusted his already cold-rubbed cheeks.

"Will you…" He ducked his head down out of embarrassment and spoke the rest into his coat. "Will you come to watch me at tryouts tomorrow?" It was quiet and muffled, and for a moment Ethan thought that he would have to repeat it, but suddenly he felt the larger hand squeeze his lightly.

"I would love to."

And hidden beneath the fabric of his overstuffed winter coat, Ethan's lips formed into a smile.

Canada took Ethan home after another hour of practice. Well, actually, it was more Ethan practicing and the country standing off to the side, giving encouragement and sometimes suggestions. The boy was improving exponentially, Canada noted proudly. By the time Canada had practically dragged Ethan off of the makeshift rink (_"Just one more goal, I can do it real quick! I promise!"_) Ethan was gliding across the rink with ease, juggling the puck with the hockey stick with shaky but growing confidence. He smiled to himself – the northern nation never grew tired of watching natural talent.

At Ethan's doorstep, the child turned around and fixed Canada with a bashful stare.

"You will be there tomorrow, right?" he asked, almost nervously.

"Wouldn't miss it," Canada told him, smiling warmly. "You have my word."

Ethan thought a moment about it, then seeming satisfied, nodded and waved to the country, ducking inside his house and closing the front door quietly behind him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It was noon the day after as Canada shrugged off his coat, stepping through the sports center doors. He had been in here a few times before, so the country didn't need to ask anyone where hockey tryouts were being held. He made his way into the main part of the center, where bleachers surrounded the indoor hockey rink in the middle of the stadium-like enclosure.

Children of all ages were lined up on the side of the ice. Canada gazed over the group before he spotted Ethan standing in the middle. He had his head down and was looking at the ice nervously. The nation slid in next to the group of parents sitting in the lower levels of the bleachers; none of them seemed to notice him – they were all preoccupied with watching their own sons or daughters take to the ice as the coach called them out, one by one. Canada glanced down at the line again – Ethan was next.

The boy was clutching his hockey stick like a lifeline, and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. Canada stood up.

"Hey! Ethan!" he waved one of his arms over his head, trying to get the child's attention.

Ethan looked up at his name, eyes wandering over the small crowd of spectators. It took him a couple of moments (Canada inwardly sighed) but finally the boy's eyes rested on the country and a smile attached itself to Ethan's face. The boy shyly waved back, looking extremely relieved. Pleased, Canada sat back down.

The woman sitting next to him half-turned in her seat to face the nation. "Um, excuse me, but… do you know Ethan?" she questioned. Just glancing at her Canada could tell she was Ethan's mother – the two looked nearly identical.

He nodded, slightly embarrassed. "Ah… yeah, a little bit. I helped him practice hockey yesterday. He asked me to come to his tryouts."

"Oh, so you're Matthew then!" she exclaimed, her mouth forming a little 'o.' She reached out and clasped his hand, shaking it warmly. "I'm Ethan's mother. I want to tell you that he was so happy when he came home yesterday. I've never heard him talk so much in his life."

Canada blushed, at a loss for words. He rubbed the back of his neck. "He… he's very good once he gets on the ice, eh?" he said quietly. "You have a very talented son, ma'am."

She positively beamed at the compliment.

"Ethan Woodsworth!" the coach called, looking expectantly at the line. Both Canada and Ethan's mother turned to watch the boy. Ethan ducked his head quickly, staring at the ice. He glanced back up at the bleachers, where the two waved in support. The boy took a visible breath, and skated out to the middle of the rink, hockey stick in hand: Ethan was ready.

Canada felt pride bubble up in his chest as he watched Ethan go through the drills. Even when the child slipped on the ice, or fumbled the puck, Ethan righted himself with a blushing but determined expression and picked up right where he had left off. The country heard a whispered "wow" from the woman next to him as she stared at her son on the ice. Canada snuck a glance out of the corner of his violet eyes – Ethan's mother looked awestruck as her eyes followed the child. For some reason, it made the northern nation even more pleased, and he turned back to watch the last of the tryout.

When Ethan scored a goal, the boy lost all pretenses and whooped, then quickly seemed to remember where he was and ducked his head in embarrassment. He was flustered, but radiated happiness all the same. Canada chuckled quietly to himself as the coach nodded and called out the next name on his list.

Canadians put their heart and soul into a task once they started, and the quiet country knew that Ethan was no different. It was the reason Canada loved his people, he reflected as Ethan skated to the edge of the ice and sat down to take off his skates, a certain pride in the way the child held himself as he undid his laces. The boy turned and grinned to his two watchers on the sidelines, who both waved back, mirroring his expression. Yes, Canada decided – if his people were trying, then they were giving it their best.

* * *

A/N: For the record, I have a pond in my front yard and all I would hear from my mom every winter is "DON'T GO ON THE ICE YOU'RE GOING TO FALL THROUGH AND DIE FROM HYPOTHERMIA" so I believe that was partly to blame for Ethan's "ice adventures." And also, I am so bad at skating. Canada would cry if he saw me try to skate, that's how bad I am.

For everyone who celebrates it, Merry early Christmas! For everyone who doesn't, or who celebrate something else, I hope you have a wonderful time and enjoy the winter holidays~

Next up, everybody's favorite hero! X3 I will see you all at the end of December! (Reviews would be the best present ever! No joke! ;D )


	8. America

A/N: Oh my god, oh my god you guys! /Legally Blonde reference. Haha, but no, seriously - sorry for the long wait on this one. For all of you who follow me on DeviantArt (same name - you can pretty much guarantee that anyone online with the name "niirasri" is yours truly) you know how chaotic my life has been recently. For those who don't, I won't bore you - just know that I've been running around and stressing like a fat kid working out, which is why this one took me so long to finally write.

Also, it's twice the length of the other chapters. TWICE. My excuse is that it ran away with me (and America is, like, totally my fav character but shush you.) Also, maybe that's why it took so long to write. Hmmm...

**Disclaimer:** I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

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She acknowledged the fact that it was taking her much longer than usual to calculate the number of quarters that went into a dollar. The customer across the counter was staring at her, but she just kept her eyes on the coins in her hand. She counted. And then counted again. Just as the customer opened his mouth, she quickly shut the drawer, tore off the receipt with flourish and set it and the change into his waiting hand. A smile beamed from her face. "Your food will be out in just a moment sir."

He stepped back and another person took his place at the register. "Hello, ma'am, welcome to McDonald's, what can I do for you?"

Yes, she thought to herself while taking the order. She acknowledged the fact that her brain wasn't working as quickly as usual today.

_Acknowledging the problem is the first step_.

Her fingers paused over the screen. "I'm sorry, I missed what you just said." The teenaged girl behind the register looked up at the woman apologetically. "Could you repeat that?"

_Not that acknowledging it ever helped._

She was accepting the woman's money as the pennies slipped from her fingers to clink on the counter. "Haha, whoops. I just don't know what's gotten into me today…" She reached down and grabbed the coins. They seemed to stare back up at her from her palm. All she needed to do was count them and give the change back. Just count them…

"_I was counting on you!_" A familiar voice shrieked in her mind. Her eyes flashed briefly.

"_How could you do this to us?_" Her knuckles were turning white around the pennies as she stared down at them with detached interest. Idly, she wondered how hard she could squeeze… would it hurt the miniature Lincolns? Somehow, she didn't think so.

"_He doesn't care… he just doesn't care…_" the voice repeated. And the reason it was so grating, the reason it was so familiar…

It was her own.

"Hey, what are you doing over there? Come help out with this order!" A voice snapped.

She blinked slowly and handed the woman her change. "Your meal will be out in a few moments," she said automatically, with a charming smile.

A very fake charming smile.

"May I take who's ne-" she started, but was cut across by a deeper voice.

"Hey, kid, go on your break."

She turned to her manager. He was standing next to her, arms folded. "Um, but I can still take orders, I'm not really tired yet…"

"Don't matter, we've got enough people right now. Go ahead and grab your meal and be back in fifteen."

Her eyes turned back down and slowly roamed across the register. A break… but she had only been working for two hours? Did they think she couldn't handle it?

No – that couldn't be it. She kept her emotions way too hidden for anything to alert her co-workers. Even if something did slip through, she could pass it off as being tired. No one ever knew the difference. They had been tricked by her so many times before, after all.

Her fingers slid over the screen in front of her as she went to check out on her break.

"Hey, hey, you wanna grab my order before you go?" a hopeful voice asked. The teenager glanced up from the screen to see a man leaning towards her enthusiastically from the other side of the counter. The first thing that she noticed about him was that he had a stray strand sticking straight up from his dusty blonde hair. He was wearing a bomber jacket, which was quite striking for the warm spring, and sported glasses which he pushed up the bridge of his nose distractedly.

She blinked at him for a beat, then turned her eyes back down to the screen. "Sure, what do you want?" Her voice was more monotone than she had intended it to be, but oh well.

"The biggest burger you guys've got!" he said enthusiastically. She raised an eyebrow.

"That would probably be our Angus Deluxe. Is the meal okay?"

"Sounds delicious!" The huge grin the man wore made the teen smile in amusement as well. She had never seen someone this excited over a burger before…

_He used to grin like that._

Her smile faltered. Control. She needed to get herself under control. Quickly, without looking at him, the girl accepted his credit card and slid it quickly through the slot, hitting the buttons on the screen before handing it and his receipt back to him. "It'll be out in a moment," she said quietly, still not meeting his eyes.

"Thanks!" the man cheerfully resounded. The teen looked up at him and plastered on a smile of her own.

"You're welcome." She turned around to busy herself with his meal. Since it was the odd time between lunch and dinner and there was hardly any business, the kitchen had the meal out and ready before she had to wait. She turned around, bagging it and handed it to him. "Here you go, sir."

He accepted it happily, but instead of turning and walking out like she had expected him to (normal people did that after getting their food, anyway) the blonde leaned in again.

"Hey," he said more quietly, and she raised both eyebrows to show that she was listening, "you should smile for real – you look much prettier when you do." He stepped back grinning and waved as he walked out the door. "Thanks for the food!"

The door swung shut behind the man, leaving her standing there – slightly dumbstruck – as she stared after him. Slowly, the girl shook her head and punched in her employee number on the screen, clocking out for break.

o-o-o

It was half-past seven when her boss looked at the clock and told her to go home. The teen accepted the dismissal happily and dialed out, wiping her forehead as she did so. Another day, another eight hours of minimum wage. Was it worth it? She liked to think so. Was it desirable? No, definitely not. But, she supposed, taking off the uniform hat and smoothing her hair down, that was what college was for. Go to school for another indiscernible amount of years, get a better job. Just another two months and she could leave everything behind…

_Go. Go ahead and run from your problems. Leave everyone else to deal with them, you selfish, cowardly little bi-_ She bit her lip. Hard.

It was late, and she was tired. That's what she told herself as she walked out from behind the counter. All she needed was some sleep, and then she could come in bright and early tomorrow.

Suddenly, the door banged open, making her jump slightly. The girl cast her eyes to the counter – no one had been replaced on her register yet, so no one was there to serve the new customer. She sighed and retraced her steps, clocking back in to the computer and grumbling under her breath before she looking up.

"Two cheeseburgers and a large order of fries, please!" She stared for a moment, completely caught off-guard by the same blonde, bespectacled man from earlier today. He was wearing the same grin and still harbored an abnormal amount of enthusiasm. She quirked her eyebrow at him and shook her head in amusement. The teen couldn't imagine anyone wanting to eat at McDonald's twice in one day – the grease-imbibed food might taste relatively okay, but to stuff that into your stomach all the time… She felt eyes on her, and looked up to see the man watching her. When she met his gaze, he grinned.

"It's been a looooong boring day of meetings and policies," he said openly, as if giving an excuse for being here twice in one day. "Call this my way of rewarding myself." His sheepish smile was infectious, and the girl smiled back.

"I can understand that." A moment later, her manager appeared with his food.

"Awesome!" the blonde exclaimed and grabbed the bag enthusiastically.

"Have a good night," the girl said to him automatically, waving.

He beamed back at her and gave a quick military salute. "I will!" She watched, entertained, as he walked out the door whistling, then after clocking out once again, she walked out the other door to get to her car in the side parking lot.

o-o-o

Morning shifts were never worth it, she decided to herself, as the teen pulled out her cell phone under the counter. No missed calls, no text messages. The blank screen was a blessing, unlike the early shift she was working today. No calls meant no voicemails – no messages telling her in a panic to "come to the hospital right now" or to bear the ugly news of a recent 911 dialing. No warnings from her younger sister to indicate that anything had happened. All she had to do was work, which was a breath of fresh air after what the girl had come home to last night.

"_I think he's dying!_"

"_He can't be dying, have you called the hospital?_"

"_Yes! The ambulance is coming!_"

She stifled the punctuated sobs in her mind with the snapping shut of her phone. She was at work now, away from that mess. She could forget for the next eight hour shift what was wrong with her life. She could escape, while her sister and mother were left to deal with the problem.

_Because I can't fix it. Because I can't do a damn thing about it…_ She shut the drawer harder than she had intended, and after handing out the meal, bent to retrieve the fallen coins. From the floor she heard the door jingle, and hefted herself to her feet to take the next order. "Hello, how may I help-" The words were only halfway out of her mouth before she saw the blonde man from yesterday in front of her, looking positively thrilled.

"Hey, I didn't know you were working this morning, too!"

"I like the breakfast food," she answered with a small smile, keeping the words she really wanted to say locked in her mind; "_It's an excuse to escape my life earlier in the day. If I had stayed at my house any longer, I would have gone insane._"

"Me too!" he said excitedly. "It's the best! I want an Egg McMuffin and an extra large coffee. Two cream and sugar." He held up two fingers to emphasize with a grin. "I'm gonna die if I don't have it."

"More meetings today?" she asked, pouring the coffee into the largest insulated cup they had. The girl was surprised she had remembered the man's excuse from last night, but reasoned with herself that he _had _made a big impression on her.

"Yeah," he groaned, reaching out thankfully for the cup when she handed it to him. "You can bet that I'll be here for lunch."

"Funny, so will I." She meant it to be a joke, but the black response she held to it stamped to itself over her mind: "_Because going home means I'm helpless again._" The smile stretched thin over her face, and the worst part of it…

…he noticed.

For a moment, the teen thought he would ignore it and let her get back to her work like she hoped he would. He didn't.

"Hey, I want a real smile!" He wore a 1000-watt of his own as she handed him the bag. Once again, it was infectious – the teen found her lips twitching up. He nodded in self-satisfaction before glancing at his digital watch and yelping. "Oh damn – gotta run!"

"Are you late?"

He grinned at her. "Nah – a hero's never late! I'll be just in time!" The bell dinged as he ran out the door and was gone. She turned to the next customer and took their order. By the time the girl had turned around to busy herself with putting together the meal, her smile had turned into a sad façade.

"_It's too bad heroes don't really exist,_" she thought to herself. "_Because I suppose I could really use one._"

o-o-o

The man had told the truth – he was back for lunch. She handed him another coffee as he handed her change, groaning about how the meeting was going nowhere. When the girl had asked what exactly was so bad about it, the answer was downright cryptic to her; he mumbled something about "international relations," "my awesome ideas," and "stuffy old Brits."

The teen nodded, perplexed and slightly amused, and decided not to question anymore as he downed his coffee and immediately ordered another.

He was back the next day for lunch as well, and by then the girl had classified him in her mind as having an expandable steel stomach in order to eat this much fast food. He was wearing the bomber jacket again, and when she asked about it offhand, the man responded enthusiastically, "I think it makes me look more heroic, don't you?" He turned as if to show it off, and the teen gave a small, sad smile.

"I don't believe in heroes," she said quietly, wiping the counters before the next wave of customers came in. His brows furrowed and he looked like her was going to say something when she excused herself to fill up the ice machine.

From the back window of the restaurant the girl watched him walk down the sidewalk with his meal as she clutched tightly to her cell phone, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as she read the message from her sister:

_Dad's in the hospital again, mom's crying in her room. Come home soon, if you can._

She set her jaw even as her eyes filled with tears, and hefted the bucket of ice onto her shoulder. She felt hopeless and lost and numb – feelings that she was becoming more and more familiar with. The girl squared her shoulders against the onslaught of desperate thoughts clawing her skull and, for some reason, couldn't help wondering if the man in the jacket would come back.

She was working a late shift that night. When her manager had asked if it was okay, the mask had come on.

"Sure!" she had replied in a chipper tone, "I don't mind at all!" All lies of course, but he hadn't noticed a thing – patting her on the back for being "such a hard worker." The teen warped his words into sounding more like "such a good liar." She couldn't argue with that.

A late night shift meant that she was left to manage the counter; two guys in the back kitchens guffawing loudly at shared sex stories and the manager in his office, counting the money left the teen very much alone. In the pitifully empty restaurant ("_Why did they stay open that late anyway?_" she thought to herself bitterly) the only thing to keep her company was her mind.

And she didn't want to be alone with that.

It was nearly an art form to her now – a simple reaction. Shutting off her brain, choking any dangerous ideas that squeezed through to the forefront. It was safer this way, she told herself while idly cleaning the lobby; it was easier to just not think about things. Distractions were a dime a dozen, after all. Like sweeping. And wiping tables. And picking up broken bits of cookie that some child had probably sat on earlier that day.

As the teen held the cookie, it crumbled through her fingers to the floor. Her first reaction was to bend down and sweep up the bits before somebody stepped on them. But… She stared at the remnants in her palm instead. The cookie had reminded her of something. The way it slipped through her fingers and fell apart before it hit the floor. It seemed so familiar…

Oh, she realized numbly, tilting her hands and letting the remaining crumbs roll off to hit tile. It was like her life.

The teen clamped down on that thought, strangling it. "Now don't be thinking like that," she whispered to herself with an empty smile. "Or you'll start thinking it's true. You're just so dramatic." She laughed, sweeping the cookie off the floor and into the dustbin in one fluid motion. Among the empty chairs and tables her voice hung in the air, and the teen could hear the slight note of hysteria in her voice. She clamped her lips shut and her eyes downcast, and numbly resumed cleaning.

It was nearing eleven – the time when her shift would end – when the door banged open, making the teen jump slightly and clutch the broom. A man stumbled into the restaurant; his clothes were rumpled and messy-looking, and bags were under his eyes. While all of this registered to her, she was only able to focus on one, simple thing that caught the light – a long-necked glass bottle in his hand. She took a step back.

"I wan'na order," the man said, slurring his speech badly and not seeming to notice. He walked unsteadily up to the counter, but the girl was frozen to the spot by one of the tables, still grasping the broom. The man looked around for a moment, as if wondering why the counter was empty. He turned around and saw her. "You. You can take m'order?"

She was stuck, numb, couldn't move. Yes, she should be able to take his order. She could walk to the counter and turn on the register and ask him what he wanted like she had done hundreds of times that day already. But she couldn't take her eyes off that bottle.

"I…" She didn't breathe in – didn't want to smell that liquid's disgusting odor… because that would drag up memories better left alone. In the back of her mind. Where they couldn't make her break down.

The door opened again, finally dragging her eyes away from the bottle to the familiar blonde in glasses and a bomber jacket walking into the restaurant.

"Man, I am sooooo glad you guys're open this late! I am _starving!_" He looked expectantly at the counter, but, upon finding that nobody was there, glanced around the lobby before seeing the girl and breaking into a grin. "Hey!" he greeted, walking over, "who knew you'd be here this late? I can imagine it's so boring without any customers, but never fear – the hero is here!" He stopped a couple of feet away from her, blue eyes looking over the girl before his mouth formed a small frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Hey, you!" The drunken man pointed an accusing finger at the back of the leather jacket. "She'sa takin' _my _order! You… you jus' wait your turn!"

The blonde glanced behind him, looking slightly surprised. "Oh, okay, sure thing!" He stepped aside, as if to clear her way to the register, but her eyes had returned to the bottle – the liquid inside sloshing as the man moved. The girl clenched her jaw painfully hard and her feet felt like lead weights – she just couldn't move. She didn't want to move. She didn't want to go anywhere near that bottle, hated the spark of panic it lit in her heart…

The blonde quietly stared between them, seeming to think for a moment before coming to a decision. "Yo, dude, I can take your order," he said, walking up to him, not seeming to care that the other was obviously drunk. "Whaddaya want?"

"I wan'… a quarter-pounder."

"'Kay, anything else?" He regarded the man casually, an easy smile on his face, hands in his pockets. The girl looked on at the exchange in numb disbelief.

"Yeah, I… fries. I wan' fries."

"Anything to drink, dude?"

The bedraggled man grinned lopsidedly and held up the bottle. "Already got that."

"Hmm, I don't think that would go very well with McDonald's," the younger man said thoughtfully. "How about a coffee instead?"

The man nodded. "Yeah… y' may be right." He frowned a moment before nodding again. "That's m'order."

The blonde grinned at him. "Sounds good to me." He glanced over the head of the other man and met the girl's eyes. He tilted his head to the register slightly, and she got the message somewhere in her roiling mind. Quietly uprooting herself, she slipped around the counter and punched in his order in a daze.

"Hey, hey, add a Big Mac to that too, okay? And a diet coke!" He winked at her. "I'll cover this, don't worry about it."

She stared at him before nodding slightly and punching in the extra items. Bagging everything was a blur to her, and when the girl handed the food to the blonde, she felt like she was moving underwater.

"You gonna make it home okay, man?" the blonde asked cheerfully, handing a bag and the coffee to the other, who took it after steadying himself on the counter.

"No I'm… I'm alright." He laughed loudly. "Drank too much with m'buddies, I live just down the street." He nodded slowly as if thinking over his sentence, and then nodded again. He turned to the door and made his way out, steadying himself on the handle.

"Have a good night!" the blonde called after him. The door closed and he turned brightly back to the girl, handing her the cash to pay. She rang it up without even realizing what she was doing and had given him change before she was still entirely sure of what had happened.

Not even waiting to sit down at the table, he unwrapped his sandwich and took an enthusiastic bite out of it. "Man, you have _no _idea how much I needed this," he said with his mouth full.

In the back of her mind, the teen realized that this was the point where she was supposed to fake a smile and giggle, make a comment about his day, or perhaps the food and pretend to be unfazed and perfectly fine. Instead, she stared blankly at the door, trying to get the image of _that bottle _out of her head.

Eventually, she realized that he was looking at her. The girl slowly turned to meet his gaze, which was more subdued than she had ever seen it before.

"What's the matter?" he asked, not taking his eyes off her as he leaned on the counter. She averted her gaze with a dry laugh – the mask was back on.

"Ha, I guess I haven't had someone like that come in on my shift before," she said in a poor form of explanation.

"Really?"

"Yeah." She wasn't fooling him, she knew that, and it made her speak even faster. "I mean, other people have on their shifts but I guess I was just lucky since I've never dealt with a drunk _here _before-"

"You've dealt with drunks somewhere else?"

Her eyes widened and she froze. She glanced at his face and knew that however loud and thoughtless that blonde had acted before, he had caught her. Slowly, she lowered her hand from her mouth and grabbed a rag to start wiping the counters shakily. She wished he would go sit down, or leave, or _something _besides standing next to her and giving her the look she knew he had to be wearing – that one of pity and misplaced concern that she didn't want _or _need.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He took a long sip of his coke and, when the girl looked at him, wasn't wearing the expression she thought he would be. His eyebrows were furrowed as if troubled by something. By what? Her problems? Why would he even care?

"Even if I did, you wouldn't want to hear it." There. Again. Where had her filter gone? Why couldn't she put up her shield again? Frustration added itself among the many feelings clogging up her throat, making it burn. She was not expecting his answer.

"You could try me." A thought seemed to occur to him, and he squinted at her nametag. "Anna. I like it."

"I don't," she responded off-handedly. "It's boring and plain. And…" She swallowed a lump in her throat and found that even after it was gone that her eyes were still watering. "And somehow I don't think it's right to tell a complete stranger that my father is an alcoholic tearing our family apart." She looked up at him again and laughed, not even caring that it sounded desperate.

Because she knew she was.

After a moment, he held out his hand to her. "Alfred Jones. I guess I'm not a stranger anymore." The smile that shone on his face was not the carefree grin that she had only seen up until then, but soft. Reassuring. Anna giggled when she shook his hand.

"No," she said, "I guess you're not." And the giggles dissolved into tears, which became quiet sobs. Anna didn't realize much besides knowing that one moment she was behind the counter, bringing her hands up to cover her face, and the next she was being gently tugged out from behind the register and sitting down. Alfred sat next to her in the booth. Anna stared at the cheap plastic table, wiping away the stream of tears cascading down her cheeks as she shook.

"It h-hurts," she choked out. "It hurts knowing that… he's in the hospital right now after drinking himself s-stupid. It hurts knowing that my mom cries alone in her room, and it hurts that this is all my sister _ever _sees. It didn't used to be like this. It didn't… it didn't…" Anna gave up wiping her face; the teen wrapped her arms around herself instead. "I can't do anything. He won't stop. Every time he drinks himself into the hospital, and then he gets de-toxed, and he's _my father _again and I'm so happy I… I…" The terror of those nights were coming back, when she would be in bed and hear the retching through the walls, the clink of the bottle on tile, taken into the bathroom just so that he could drink in between the gagging. She had fancied that he wasn't just trying to poison his liver, but absolutely drown it. "Then every time, _every single time _he starts again, and it's just like the first time because he doesn't even care enough to stop. He doesn't _care _about us. He doesn't even _try _anymore. He doesn't… he doesn't…" Anna gave up trying to contain herself and convulsed with sobs. She didn't fight against the arms pulling her into a hug, and the teen buried her tear-stained face into the brown leather jacket and cried right there in an empty McDonald's, on a stranger-who-wasn't-really-a-stranger-anymore. Anna didn't know how much time passed, but no one walked in, and no one came out of the back rooms to see what was going on. The restaurant remained motionless.

When she began to quiet, Alfred said softly, "You've been keeping that in for awhile, haven't you?"

"Yeah," she whispered. Anna drew in a shaky breath before sitting up, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She gave a watery smile when the blonde offered a handful of napkins to her. The girl blew her nose and took another slow breath. "I can't talk about it with my mom. If she knew I felt like this… it would break her heart. So I… so I…"

"So you have to be strong," Alfred finished. He didn't seem happy with the conclusion.

She smiled sadly. "I have to _pretend _to be strong. If I was _actually _strong, then this," Anna motioned vaguely to herself, "wouldn't have happened."

"That's not true!" His reply was so forceful that it caught her off-guard, making her turn in surprise. He was frowning at her, blue eyes clearly troubled. "It shows that you're really strong! You're dealing with all of this, but you still think about your family first, that's… that's more than strong, that's heroic!" Alfred was staring at her so indignantly, that Anna felt a smile grow on her face. Before she knew it, she was laughing – harder than she had laughed in years. As more tears came to her eyes, Anna supposed that she must seem hysterical, but at this point she didn't care. It felt… liberating to tell someone else. To finally confide in someone. He seemed confused at first, but after a moment joined in with her, both of them laughing together in an empty plastic booth as the street lights fell on the bare roads outside.

Fifteen minutes later, Anna peeked her head around the office door.

"Hey, I'm done with my shift. I'm going home, okay?" she said to her manager. He waved from his seat.

"Yeah, sure thing. Good night." She wished him the same and walked back up to the register, where Alfred was leaning on the counter, waiting expectantly. When Anna made her way over, he handed her a dollar.

"One ice cream cone, please!" His 1000-watt grin was back, making her laugh as she put the bill in the register.

"Sure thing." It only took a moment for her to turn and swirl the ice cream, handing the finished cone to him. She punched out while he watched her, and then Anna walked out from behind the counter.

Alfred handed the cone back to her. She took it, looking up at him curiously.

"Whenever I'm down, ice cream _always _makes me feel better," he said by way of explanation, and Anna smiled. "Come on, I'll walk you out to your car. No one likes to be alone in a city at night."

They left the empty restaurant, Alfred walking beside Anna contentedly, and holding her cone as she dug in her purse for the keys. When they jingled in her hand and she was given back her ice cream, however, she didn't unlock the door. Anna smiled up at Alfred, and they both knew it was for real this time.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "I… it means a lot to me that someone would listen to me like that."

"Are you going home now?" he asked, hands in his pockets. She shook her head.

"I'm heading to the hospital. My mom should go home and sleep – I can take care of dad. It's no big deal." She paused for a moment, hesitating. "Okay, it is a big deal. It's my duty to help, but it hurts me every time I see him like that. But… it'll be okay." Anna offered a watery smile to the blonde, and he nodded. Beaming down at her, his voice was warm as he said,

"It will be! Because you're strong. You're a hero." He stepped back and gave a salute, and was back to his carefree grin. "See ya, Anna!"

She watched him turn and walk away, whistling a cheerful tune. An odd but welcome thought struck her as her eyes followed Alfred's retreating figure.

"_Maybe heroes really do exist._"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

America checked his phone again before rolling his eyes and clicking it shut as he halted on the sidewalk. According to Canada, this was the place; there was no mistaking it. The country walked in through the wooden door, flashing an ID to the man standing at the entrance. He glanced around above the heads of people sitting around tables and saw next to the bar a very familiar-looking pair of eyebrows.

_Hey Al – I think England went to a bar down the street after the meeting. Can you make sure he actually makes it back to the hotel 2nite?_

The text message from his brother had come right after he had left Anna, and, sighing, he had altered his course.

Looks like Canada had been right.

He moved through the crowd to plop down on a bar stool next to England. "Hey, Iggy!" he greeted loudly, giving him a grin. The older country started slightly before directing a scowl his way.

"What are you doing here?" Annoyance was etched deep into England's tone. America shrugged.

"Canada told me that you went out drinking and to drag your ass back to the hotel, since you're always too smashed to do anything on your own afterwards."

England snorted. "Well, you're going to have a long wait, then – you only interrupted me on my second drink." The older country reached for his glass, but America picked it up and held it out of his reach.

"Bloody-! Give me that!" England grabbed for it, but America just held it further away from him.

"Can't you just give the alcohol a rest, tonight?" America asked tiredly. The other country looked taken aback at his flat tone, and lowered his arms from trying to snatch back his drink.

However, his own tone was still biting. "Do you mind? I'm trying to wind down after that _atrocious _meeting, and I would like my bloody glass back so I can do just that." England fixed him with a glare.

America debated remaining stubborn and dumping the drink in a trash can or something, but grudgingly handed it back to the island nation, frowning as he did so. England snatched it back quickly, as if suspecting America would just try to hold it out of his reach again. America averted his gaze, staring at the wall instead with troubled eyes.

"Why are you so bothered all of a sudden?" England asked in clipped tones as he went back to nursing his drink. "I thought you had finished with your ridiculous Prohibition tendencies long ago."

America ignored the question and swiveled on the stool so that his shoulder blades were resting against the countertop. He traced patterns in the wood-grained ceiling with his eyes, and they sat in silence.

America was the one to break it first. "Have you…" He turned to look at England, who had gone back to ignoring him as soon as he had stopped talking. "Have you ever felt like you just can't help everyone, no matter how hard you try?"

England seemed nonplussed by the question. "It's not a feeling – it's the truth. You can't do everything for everybody, no matter what you do. We're countries, not gods." America furrowed his brow, looking down at his hands. England turned his head to look at the younger nation. "Why do you ask?"

America bit his lip before answering. "Because… it's just _frustrating._ To see all these people who need help, and to not be able to _do _anything…" He trailed off, now staring petulantly down at the floorboards and straw wrappers.

England shifted next to him, and America just thought he was ordering another drink before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up helplessly at England, who was gracing the younger country with a rare sympathetic look.

"Sometimes the most you can do for someone is to just listen," England said. The older country leaned back as America straightened on his seat.

"But what if that's not enough?" he insisted. Somewhere in the back of his mind, America knew that he was betraying how young he still was as a country. He was grateful when England didn't mention anything alluding to his naïveté – instead, the other country shrugged, turning back to the counter and lifting his glass.

"Usually it is." England downed the last drops and set it quietly back on the counter. "Most times all anyone needs is for someone to care."

For someone to care… America recalled Anna's tear-stained, but grateful face in his mind. "_Thank you, it means a lot to me that someone would listen to me like that…_"

He stood up abruptly, making England jump. "I'm going to listen to more of my people!" he said with sudden unfaltering confidence, familiar grin back on his face as he turned to England with his new idea.

"Oh good, I'm glad you've realized what a democracy is," England replied distractedly, looking at his empty glass with distaste. "Off you go now." He was about to get the attention of the bartender when America threw an arm around his shoulders, almost making the smaller nation fall off his stool.

"I didn't mean _now, _dude! And you're done for tonight, I'm taking you back to the hotel."

England looked insulted. "I most certainly am not! I'm not even on my third drink-!" He clamped his mouth shut at the put-off look on America's face.

"Come on, Iggy, just let it go tonight – please?" America whined, but he knew the underlying pleading tone in his voice didn't go unnoticed. England glared at him for a final moment before sighing and taking out his wallet.

"Fine," he grumbled, leaving the bills on the counter and shrugging on his jacket. "But I certainly don't need help getting to my room – I'm not even remotely drunk enough."

"Yeah, yeah." America was grinning as they walked out of the bar, but as England began complaining next to him about the weather or his attitude or something he tuned him out. Anna's face swam back into his mind, making his smile turn soft.

She would get through okay, he decided. The girl had been burdened with the job of being her family's rock, but she was standing solid. They were lucky to have her, he decided with certainty. She was American, after all – Anna would be able to get through anything if she put her mind to it. The thought alone made him swell with pride.

* * *

A/N: Now I realize that some of you were probably expecting a more... um, "epic" (for lack of a better word) issue for America to be involved in, but I went with my gut and wrote on alcoholism for two reasons:

1. It's extremely and unfortunately common. I guarantee that you know at least one person, if not more, that is affected by alcoholism in some shape or form, whether by genetics (because it is a genetic _disease_) or family.

2. America often is placed with the more cliché ways to be a hero, but I feel that sometimes all it really takes is a kind smile and support to keep someone looking up.

Lookit me preach. Pah, ignore me, I'm just a writer. -toddles off to find a life-

Austria is next! (I plan to write his chapter while listening to nothing but classical music. -nods seriously- )


	9. Austria

A/N: Colleeeeggggeeee Y U NO LET ME WRITE? OTL

Truthfully it's not all college's fault. I've just been more in the mood to draw lately than write... which was predictable for me, since sometimes I go in and out of these phases. (But writing and drawing are always my top two, I can promise you that.)

Moral of these sentences? Updates might be slower, but the good news is that Spring Break is coming up soon! More time for me to write!

Without further ado, enjoy~

**Disclaimer:** I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

* * *

She stood up from her chair abruptly in the quiet room. No one else looked at her, though everyone had heard the scrape of metal against linoleum. They kept their eyes trained on either the heart monitor - which was lazily beeping - or even worse, the woman on the bed. Wires ran across her pale and slightly wrinkled skin; some stopped at sensors patched to her arms, others disappeared beneath the loose pastel-colored clothing that the hospital had provided. A tube snaked up from the bedside machine to enter her nostrils. The old woman wasn't moving. Stifling a sob, the one who had stood suddenly left the room, closing the door behind her.

In the hallway, she breathed deeply. The air wasn't quite as stuffy out here, and the shuffle of nurses and other patients added the noise which she so desperately needed at the moment. Sounds, noises, voices.

Distractions.

Distractions that she craved more than sleep, which she also needed – the call from the doctors had allotted her no time for that luxury. The plane ride had been no place for dreams, rather nightmares that attacked her whether she was asleep or awake. The hospital atmosphere itself made her shiver and thoughts of sleep were the last thing on her mind…

Sleeping while her mother was dying seemed too surreal for her to even try. The room, however, had certainly been quiet enough for that; despite everyone who sat in that little area, crowding around her bed, the silence had been deafening. No one had spoken a word… and it had driven her insane.

She leaned against the wall, running a hand through her un-styled hair. The doctors and nurses passing by didn't even spare a glance at her – this happened every day for them. Another cancerous growth. Another patient dying. Another distraught bystander. Everything became old-hat after a while… at least, that was what her brother told her. He was the doctor of the family, the oldest, and the one everyone leaned on. He was in the room with their mother, now. But she had left, because she wasn't the strong one in the family. She was just the owner of a craft shop. Running away from problems seemed to be her thing… she didn't like being bossed around all the time as a teenager, so she ran to her sister's house. Her old job fired her, so she ran away to be hired by her father's company. Her grades in college weren't good enough, so she dropped out to run her own store. When she and her husband would have a fight, she would drive to a friend's place.

Her mother was dying… so she ran out into the hallway. Away from the beeping machines and monitors which could go silent at any minute. Away from the blank stares of her family, who looked like they were waiting for death themselves. She couldn't _stand _it. She was about to lose everything, and they were just _sitting _there. She needed to do something, _anything_ but sit there in that dim room, just waiting for her mother to die. It was the worst torture she could have imagined.

The doorknob clicked behind her, and she quickly moved out of the way to allow her sister through. The younger girl looked at her with the same dead eyes as everyone else in the room.

"Why did you leave?" she asked once the door was closed behind her. A spark came into the younger girl's expression as she glared at her older sister. This was the little girl that she had played Barbies with and had chased around the yard. Now, she stood there, clutching the doorknob and staring at her with such a look of accusation, she felt herself tense up.

"I came out for some fresh air. It's extremely stuffy in that room."

"With mutti?" she retorted. "It's too stuffy to stay with mutti, is that it?" The comment bit into her like ice, but she had no comeback. She had never seen her little sister like this before. "Yeah, okay, I can completely see why you're the favorite. Makes perfect sense. It would make even more sense if you actually _gave a damn_."

This was an unfair accusation, and they both knew it. Four hours to fly here on what little money she was making with the craft store showed just how desperate she was to be here. The hard part was staying in that room. The cancer was already a death sentence for her mother, but the entire family acted like they were going to follow. It was too much, couldn't her sister see that? Just because she was older didn't mean she could deal with this. Thirty-four might seem old to some people, but right now she felt like a child. Standing there in the harsh gaze of her sister did nothing to quell that feeling.

With nothing to say back, she turned and walked down the hallway – running away once again. This was too much for her sister, however, who yelled after her.

"Fine! Leave her here! You go right ahead and leave! I damn well don't want you here! Just go!" She could hear the hitch in her sister's voice, and that wounded her more than the words. Her sister knew that their mother wasn't even conscious – it made no difference to her whether she was there or not. What she was really saying was "_how could you leave me here? I thought you were my big sister? I need you!_"

And even though she could see through her sister's anger to the pain and despair underneath, she still ran. She didn't know where she was going because she had never been in the Vienna hospital before, but that made no difference for her. She just wanted to be away from that room. Leaving the hospital itself was what she really wanted to do, but what little devotion she had kept her from going that far. She settled for getting off this floor, and instead rode the elevator down to the lobby.

This was where the gift shops and visitor's rooms monopolized the space. No sterile white hallways and patients being wheeled throughout the halls – just non-objective art and fake potted plants. Even though this was the visitors' area, the downstairs portion of the hospital was as quiet as her mother's room. Most likely, they were all with their family and friends in the upper levels. Just like she should be, except that she wasn't. And even now, the quiet was still deafening.

Not knowing what to do, she followed the plastic signs to the little cafeteria, where a coffee machine and snack dispensers were lined up against the wall. The actual line of the cafeteria was closed, the lights dimmed. It was only then that she realized how early in the morning it was. She sighed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. No wonder there was hardly anyone here. Taking a few coins out of her purse, she walked up to the coffee machine and deposited them. The machine rumbled to life, cutting through the silence like a breath of air for the woman. As it filled up the thick paper cup, she wondered when she had become so adverse to the quiet. It had never bothered her before… but then, as she sipped the hot coffee, almost burning her tongue, she had never experienced it in the form of death. Especially not in the death of her mother.

With the coffee machine silent once again, she left the quiet cafeteria and walked back into the hallway. She needed to be somewhere with a distraction, to take her mind off of things. The gift shops were too crowded. Not with people, but with stands and merchandise. Looking at the "Get Well" balloons and the "Feel Better" cards just ended up reminding her that, no, her mother was _not _going to "get well" and certainly not "feel better." The doctors had called to say that she had less than a day left. Miracles worked in some cases, but not in hers. And here she was, hiding in the lobby – dwindling away the precious hours by distracting herself with coffee. Guilt hit her like a sledgehammer, followed by a wave of despair: she should be with her mother, but she couldn't be. Not with everyone looking like that. It was too much.

At first she thought she was hallucinating when she heard a piano. The woman paused in her way down the hall. She was in the middle of a dark hallway in the lower level of a hospital, and she suddenly heard chords floating through the air? But she listened to them, and cocked her head towards the music. It wasn't coming from the speakers installed every few meters along the wall – no music had been playing before, and the notes were too clear to come through the miniature technology. Without thinking, she turned and followed the sound.

At the end of the hall, she was able to figure out where it was coming from. The woman walked slowly to peer into one of the open rooms. It was brightly lit by many windows lining the walls, and green carpet covered the floor. Hardly anything was decorating the room; all of the massively-reproduced paintings hung in the hallways instead of in here, and only a few chairs were placed up against the wall. The main decoration of the room, she supposed, was the grand piano set in the exact center of the space. A man sat at it, running his long fingers across the keys smoothly, and it took her mind a moment to register that he was the one playing it.

Quietly and slowly, she slipped into the room and sat in one of the chairs, keeping her eyes on the piano the entire time. Music flowed out of it in waves, swelling up and then ebbing down. Never before had she studied an instrument, but she always liked listening to music. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen someone play and it brought a sense of… calm into her. The woman relaxed in her seat as she watched the man play – his brunette hair brushed back out of his face, and glasses situated on the end of his nose. He seemed just as calm she was as he moved across the keys. She noticed with a bit of amazement that he played sometimes with his eyes closed, moving with the rhythm as if it were spouted from his fingertips. When his violet eyes opened, it was only so that he could read the music displayed in front of him.

The song either lasted three minutes or thirty. Truthfully, she couldn't tell. Her mind had been wanting a distraction all day, and it came in the form of music. Beautiful music. She had never heard anyone play the piano quite like this man did, and the woman let it engulf her willingly. The notes resounded through the room. She sat and listened; her thoughts were, for the first time that day, at peace.

When the ending chord trailed off into the air, she opened her eyes, not realizing they were closed in the first place. The man was still seated at the piano as he shuffled his sheet music around on the stand. She watched him decide on another piece and carefully place the music in its proper place. He rested his hands on the keys.

"Are you fond of music?" She jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. It was a simple question, but still very unexpected.

"I…" She was quickly growing flustered at having been caught listening. It suddenly felt like she should have asked permission, even if he _had_ been playing in a public place. "…yes, I like music," she finished somewhat lamely. He seemed satisfied, however, and began to play once again. This piece was softer than his last. It seemed to cushion the notes, instead of send them to resound off the walls. The difference between the two caught her off guard.

"This is one of Strauss' less-famous compositions," the man told her as he played. He didn't take his eyes off of the music, and his fingers never wavered, but he spoke without any essence of distraction. Even to her untrained sense, she knew that he had been playing the piano for a very long time. "I find it a shame that it isn't played very often, because it has a gentleness which is rare in other pieces from his time." He inclined his head slightly in her direction. "Are you able to hear it?"

"Yes," she answered quietly. Her eyes followed his hands with fascination. "I can hear it." He nodded his head in what she guessed was approval, and they lapsed into silence. Silence in terms of speaking, of course; the beautiful music resounding from the instrument filled both of their ears. It was welcomed.

"You don't seem sick," he stated finally, after turning a page of the sheet music. "Are you here visiting someone?"

The piano covered the long silence before she answered.

"My mother." The words came out dry. She lowered her face to gaze at her hands. They seemed so still compared to his. "She has cancer."

He said nothing for a while as he continued playing. She wasn't expecting any answer back by the time he replied evenly. "I'm sorry to hear that." The words were simple, but she could tell that he meant it. Melody took over once again.

She clenched her hands together as she listened. "I…I left her with my other family because I couldn't stand it in her room," she confessed quietly.

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because… I'm scared," she all but whispered. With the music playing, the woman doubted he heard it, but she kept going anyway. "I'm scared that I'm going to have to watch her die, and I don't want that to happen. She's always been so strong, so it hurts me to see her like this…" Her nails were biting into her skin at this point, but she didn't care. She was confessing to this man what she couldn't even confess to herself. "And everyone else in the room scares me. They act like they're going to die as well, and if I can't bear the thought of losing my mother, what makes them think that I could lose them, too? But my little sister is up there alone because I can't handle my own weaknesses – I left them all alone and just ran away, like a child. I-I'm an adult, but sometimes… I can't tell whether I really am or not." The ending was hushed. She wanted to say more, but stopped herself and looked up at the man. The woman wanted to see his reaction to what she had just blurted out, but he didn't seem to have one. He continued to finger the keys delicately, and she noticed that his eyes were once again closed.

"There is," he started slowly, putting emphasis on each word, "no shame in running away, if you return before it is too late." He opened his eyes now and, for the first time, they were focused on her. The music swelled as they stared at each other, and then slowly faded once again. It took her a moment to realize that he had stopped playing; the song was over. He went back to organizing his sheet music.

"I don't have any knowledge of your family, or what your life has been like in the past. I will advise you, however, that while you may be scared now of being in that room, won't you be even unhappier that you did not spend the time with her which remained?" He pushed up his glasses and examined one paper, before placing it on the piano delicately. "Take such things into consideration before you listen to your misgivings."

It was silent in the room. Silence had managed to terrify her just a few minutes ago, but now… something had changed. It still threatened to overwhelm her, but this time, it was because she was alone down here, without her family. Not because she was afraid. Upstairs, next to that hospital bed, she was needed.

She stood up. In a couple of steps, she was at the doorway leading into the hall. "I want to thank you," she said, turning around, "for letting me listen to you play. I've never heard anything quite like it before; it was beautiful."

"I'm always pleased to find someone who appreciates music," he responded, turning to face her. "It has been my pleasure, Frau…?"

"Erika." She smiled at him warmly.

"Frau Erika," he finished. "I wish you and your family happiness through your hard times." He turned back to the piano and began to play once again, melody seeping into the air.

"Thank you," she whispered, and left.

By the time Erika reached the elevator, his music was just an echo in her ears. The tune stayed with her, though, as she walked through the hallways, retracing her steps to her mother's room. She opened the door.

Everything was how she left it. Her father sat in one of the chairs, his head in his hands. Her aunt looked out the small glass window. Her brother and sister stood by the bed, watching their mother sleep. Machinery and monitors were still beeping, but now Erika held a song to accompany the steady beat. Quietly, she crossed to stand beside her sister, and wordlessly took her hand. Her sister squeezed her fingers, but said nothing; nothing needed to be said.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Austria heard her leave and, before that, he had even picked out the quiet "thank you." A musical artist needed to have excellent hearing, after all. Excellent hearing was what had allowed him to tune the piano himself, once he had heard how horribly off-key it had been. Obviously, no one had been called in to play at the hospital in a very, very long time.

It was a shame, he thought, to waste such a precious instrument by abusing it with disuse. And there was especially no excuse if a willing audience was at hand. Maybe the patients in the hospital would not hear it, but music could provide comfort for the visitors. Like Erika. He had not been expecting to have her listen, but after hundreds of years of living one tended to get used to surprises. And, he reflected, she had been a very nice audience. Uneducated in music, perhaps, but more willing to listen than many he had played for before. It had been a long time since he had come across someone who had _needed _music.

The country had come into the hospital today to gather opinions on a new law pertaining to medical aid. It was a miniscule change from the old standards, just cleaning up a few unspecified areas, but even that was important enough for Austria to talk to some of the people who were affected – namely doctors. The interviews had gone smoothly (they just thought he was a reporter – of course he didn't bother to correct them) and, in the end, took up much less time than he had allotted. On his way to leave, that's when the country had found the piano, covered in an old cloth and dust, and just waiting to be played. After cleaning it up and tuning it, he found the sheets of music hidden under the lid. He had been fairly impressed by the selections.

Sighing, he finished the composition with a last chord and stood up. Austria organized the sheet music into a neat stack and left it on the stand for someone else to be lured by. The piano itself gleamed in the sunlight, and he ran his fingers along it lovingly before replacing his gloves over his hands and walking out of the room.

The country was fairly irritable as he left the hospital behind, which made no sense to him. (Actually it did somewhat – for anyone to treat a piano like that was generally a sin in his eyes.) But the piano's treatment was not at the forefront of his mind. Instead, he acknowledged begrudgingly that he felt disappointment for not being able to help Erika more. It was an illogical feeling; he was only a country, not a miracle-worker. People died all the time, whether or not he knew them personally. They were his people, he felt the loss for each one gone, but it hit any country particularly hard to realize they couldn't do anything about it. Austria generally tried to shy away from such a feeling, but in some instances… it was unavoidable.

He turned to look back at the Vienna hospital. It towered over everything around it, and rightfully so – it was the largest hospital in Europe. He was glad that he had such a way to take care of his sick citizens, however… His gaze happened on one of the windows, and even from this distance he could tell it was Erika's figure framed by the glass. Sometimes, a country just knew these things. The normally stoic country let a small smile be shown on his features. It was important for a hospital to take care of their visitors, too. Sometimes, all that was needed was a small boost. That was all that Erika had needed, and now Austria was quite confident that she would stand bravely by her family. A moment of weakness just allowed everyone to see how strong she really was. And that was no surprise, was it? He thought to himself, turning around once again to continue on his way. She was Austrian, after all.

* * *

A/N: I really want to thank you all again for sticking with this little conglomeration of one-shots. Even if I'm getting slower and slower on updates, I'm always so happy when someone adds this story to their favorites or leaves a review. You guys add a little bit of bright, cheery light to my life. /cheese

For the record, when I was in the hospital visiting my mom last month, they totally had a grand piano in the lobby. XD I was so excited, because I had already written that part of the story.

Reviews will help me survive final exams coming up soon! If you care for my mental well-being, you know what to do~!

Next up? Looks like it'll be a certain tomato-loving tsundere by the name of Romano!


	10. Romano

A/N: Why do I always publish these when final exams are coming up? OTL; Ah well, I suppose this is my nerdified version of "sticking it to the man." Ha, university, I'm not going to study! I'm going to write fanfiction, and there's nothing that you can do to stop me!

...And then I end up studying my ass off, anyway.

Well, I won't keep you waiting any longer~ Here you guys go!

**Disclaimer:** I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

* * *

It had all started with a mud puddle.

Last night had been rainy, coating the city in a wet haze and the dirt covering the backstreets had gathered in the drizzle to form a very watery, dirty, and all-too-tempting puddle. Too tempting for the more mean-spirited, that is.

This morning he was pushed back down into the mess a second time, soaking his clothes through and dropping his satchel behind him. The boy glared up at the two standing over him, both laughing loudly.

"Shut up!" he yelled, trying to get his (mud-covered) feet under his small body and only succeeding in splashing himself more. "Just shut up! It's not funny!" The older boys only laughed louder, making him furious. As he flailed in the mud, making even more of a mess, the boy on the right giggled as he picked up the discarded satchel.

"What's in here? You got any money?" the other asked, grinning wickedly down at the drenched boy. Outrage pounded in the child's veins as the bag was picked up and dug through.

"No, of course not, just books," the one who was doing the rummaging said, squinting into the bag. Shrugging, he turned it over and shook, sending all of the child's school things to the sopping ground.

That was the last straw.

Yelling in rage the boy kicked out, catching the other's knees and sending him toppling into the mud. He grabbed the other's hair and started pulling while screaming, "don't touch my stuff ever! You stupid jerk! I'll pound your face into a wall!" They were both yelling, the boy pulling and kicking while the older clawed at him, trying to get away. The other kid blundered into the fray, snatching the smaller boy and throwing him back in the puddle. The child wasn't deterred however, and bit the arm holding him. The first one had now recovered, and barreled into them.

Shouting obscenities at them both, the boy threw himself on them, disregarding the group starting to form around the tussle.

"Let me through, let me through!" a stern voice called, but not before a fist landed squarely into the young boy's left eye, sending him reeling back. The crowd parted as one of his teachers walked through, looking rushed and frazzled. "Stop this right now! Stop it!" The child was about to make another dash at his antagonizers, but was held back by his soaked shirt as the teacher grabbed him, keeping him in place.

"You two!" he barked. "Stand up!" The other boys scrambled to their feet, and the child was satisfied to see bruises starting to form on their muddy skin. "Now I can't believe that children of _this school _would act so barbaric. You should all be ashamed!" The other two boys stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, looking up sullenly at the teacher. One of them turned his glare to the boy being held, and the boy jerked at the grip around his arms, but the teacher was having none of that.

As the crowd started to disperse, the teacher sighed. "All three of you will be staying at school today for your lunch break hours. Your parents will be notified of this awful behavior." The boy felt the teacher's grip on him loosen. "Now," he continued, "I demand that you three apologize. I don't want to hear any 'but he started it' business." He looked towards the two other boys. "You both can go first."

The smaller one mumbled a gruff "sorry" under his breath, but the other stared at the boy squarely before wickedly grinning.

"I'm sorry that you're from a stupid poor family," he sneered. The teacher said something, but wasn't heard.

The smirk was soon wiped from his face as the child yelled in rage, ripped his hands from the teacher's grip and landed his small fist squarely in the sneering boy's face.

The sickening crunch was heard throughout the schoolyard.

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"_You stupid, stupid child,_" his mother had said as they walked down the dripping alley towards home. "_What if they had made us pay for his hospital bill? We can't afford anything like that._"

The boy had kept his head down, glaring at the cracks in the dirt. His mother had continued talking – an exasperated tone to her already thin voice. "_You can't keep getting into fights. You get hurt, and then you hurt others. What do you think is going to happen? Do you think it's good for you to live this way?_"

"_But they started it!_" he had responded finally. "_They made fun of me, and you… They called us poor!_"

His mother had stopped walking. Slowly, she kneeled next to her son, her threadbare dress scraping against the damp pavement. She gazed into his face before saying softly, "_We _are _poor. We are poor, and they are not. It does not give them a right to make fun of us, but…_" She buried her head in her son's small shoulders, clasping her arms around his back. "_My dear, dear child – you have to stop fighting. Otherwise…_" – and her grip grew tighter – "_You may break my heart._" She had looked back up at him with her eyes glistening. "_Do you understand me?_"

He had bit his lip and looked down at his clenched fists. "_Yes, mamma._"

That had been two days ago. Now, the boy walked down a cobblestone street, gripping a worn burlap bag close. The modern Roman outside markets were huge, but the boy was used to it. It was his job, every Saturday, to make the long walk to the market and then the return trip home with the food he had managed to bargain down to at least half price. Nervously, he jiggled the bag and heard the comforting clink of euros answer him. He sighed and continued on. Ten euros might not seem much to many people, but it was his family's food money for the entire week. He had never lost it before and wasn't going to start today.

Up ahead the wooden booths began, colorful fabrics and signs starting to obscure the ancient buildings around them. He headed straight for the bread stall. It was routine by now – the vendor would recognize him, grab the day-old loaves from a box behind him, and the child would hand over one euro. Eating stale bread all the time wasn't great, but sometimes they would be lucky and the baker would also give him a slightly burnt load from that morning. Once they would scrape off the blackened part it would be nice and soft. No such luck today though, and the boy accepted the bread with a mumbled "_Grazie_" and went on his way.

His next stop was the green grocer's stall, where he filled his bag with slightly bruised fruits and vegetables. After that, he went to dodge around people to get to the cheese stall. The child was two booths down from it when he stopped as something on the table next to him suddenly caught his eye.

Being short for his age, he had to stand on tip-toes to peer over the edge of the table. It was a jewelry vendor, he realized as he gazed over the watches and shining trinkets. The piece that had attracted his eye was lying to the side of all of the others, marked "SALE." It was an elaborate golden necklace, decorated with silver flowers and glittering white stones. The child's eyes grew wide as he read the price – "15€."

He might be young, but he was smart enough to realize that it wasn't made of real gold and diamonds at that cost. Still… he worried his bottom lip and sank back onto his heels. It was a very pretty necklace, even if it was made of fake gold. The child imagined it on his mother, resting against her collarbone as she walked out to run errands, or to meet with his teachers. She would look rich, not poor. Like a queen – or the wife of one of the mob bosses. The child rocked back up on his toes to see the necklace again. Fifteen euros… he grimaced – he would never be able to afford it. Even if he hadn't already bought food, it would still remain out of his grasp. The child sighed and hoisted the bag up on his shoulder as he turned to walk away.

At the dairy stall he bought the cheeses without event, but it was as he stepped back to let another person pay that the child noticed the man taking the wallet out of his back pocket to retrieve the money needed for the purchase. The boy watched, fascinated, as it was returned to the pocket just as quickly – well out of the owner's sight.

He had an idea.

If his mother ever found out about this, he would be in big trouble. Huge trouble – especially since he had just gotten into a fight. But the boy was doing it for her sake, so didn't that make it better…? He bit his lip nervously and turned to face the crowd.

He would need to find an easy target for his first pick-pocketing attempt. Every now and then he had seen someone get pick-pocketed – the thief was always quiet and quick; sometimes they would pretend to run into someone, and then grab their wallet when they were distracted. The boy knew he wouldn't be able to do that – he was only half of everyone else's height. He would have to be sneaky and fast, and hopefully the person wouldn't notice him and then he would have the money to buy his mother the pretty necklace and maybe even a chocolate for himself from the sweets vendor down the way! He peered around for a target.

There! Someone arguing with the green grocer… A brunette man was holding up a fruit, motioning to it animatedly while his words came out in a heated stream. The boy heard enough to know that they were arguing about the price, but he was too focused to care; there, in the back pocket of the man's slacks, was the square outline of a wallet.

His mouth went dry and quickly he whipped his eyes around him – no one was watching. This was his chance.

Quickly (and almost skillfully, he dared to think to himself) he snaked his tiny fingers into the pocket and around the wallet, slipping it out and almost dropping it on the pavement. He fumbled with it – half-elated, half-terrified – before turning and running-

A large hand clamped over his wrist. "And just where the hell do you think you're going with that?"

The boy yelped and tried to twist out of the man's hold, but the brunette stubbornly held on.

"Let me go!" the child yelled. "Let me go, you bastard!"

The man scoffed as he held on steadfastly. "_I'm _the bastard? You're the one whole stole my wallet, brat!"

The boy clenched his eyes shut as he flailed blindly, trying to land his fists on the other. "I said let go! Let me go! I hate you, let me go let me go let me go let me- AH!" He let out a shriek as the older man yanked him up into the air. The commotion was starting to draw a crowd.

The boy screamed angrily at the man, kicking out at him as the wallet was snatched back from the boy's grasp.

" I'll be taking this back," he said, replacing the wallet in his pants while dropping the child unceremoniously back onto the ground. He landed on his feet unsteadily, barely righting himself before falling on his bottom. The boy glared up at the man.

"And you," the man continued, pointing at the vendor, "Don't think I've forgotten about your stupid prices! I'm not finished here!"

The vendor rolled his eyes and ignored the man, instead motioning to the child. "Do you want someone to call to police on this runt?"

The brunette turned his attention back to the child. "Nah, I'll take care of it. Damn stupid kids-"

He was cut off by the boy elbowing him in the stomach.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

An hour later found the boy sitting on an abandoned outcrop of crumbling wall in the middle of the ancient city, holding his hand over an icepack and glaring at the older man dejectedly. The man pretended not to notice. He was leaning against the same outcrop with his arms folded – looking away pointedly. This continued on for a couple minutes until, finally, the man glanced over angrily.

"Would you stop staring at me like that!"

"You hit me!" the boy retorted, aiming another kick at his side.

"Yeah, because you elbowed me in the gut, you little demon!" The man snorted as he caught the child's foot in mid-strike, making the boy yelp and tumble over the side of the wall at his sudden loss of balance.

The child landed in a bush, and glared daggers up at the man who was now peering over the wall. "Maybe if you hadn't tried to steal my wallet, you wouldn't be in this mess."

"Bastard!" The boy rolled out of the bush, cursing.

"Ah, shut up. You're too young to be saying shit like that."

The boy rolled his eyes up to the sky as he snatched up his bag. "Whatever, I'm going home."

"What? You just can't 'go home' after trying to steal my wallet! Get back here!"

The boy turned to stick out his tongue but was grabbed by the collar instead. "Hey! Let go of me!"

"No way!" The brunette kept his grip on the struggling child. "If you think you're getting out of this without a punishment, then you're even stupider than I thought!"

The struggling ceased abruptly. "You aren't gonna put me in jail, are you?" Sudden fear shone in the boy's eyes as he stared up at the man. "My mamma needs me, I can't go to jail. You can't put me in jail!" The child struggled fiercely now, trying to wrest out of the man's grip and run, but the man held him tightly.

"Whoa, whoa, what do you think I am – the Polizei? I'm not going to send you jail!" The man sighed in frustration at the mistrusting expression aimed up at him. "I'm not heartless! Kids can't even go to jail anyway, Jesus…"

At this, the child relaxed slightly, downturning his face to pout at the ground. When it didn't look like he would object, the brunette lifted up the boy and set him back on the wall, so that they were eye-level. He sighed and leaned his back against it.

"You mentioned your mother; does she even know that you're out here?"

"'Course she does – she's the one who sent me out the market with money in the first place." The boy stated it as if it were obvious. He could tell it was getting on the man's nerves, but to his credit, the brunette said nothing.

"What's your name, anyway?" the man asked grumpily.

"I'm not telling you, stupid!" The boy scoffed and folded his arms. "I'm not so dumb as to tell strangers who I am."

"Wha- you damn little runt!"

"At least I'm not a stupid old man picking on a little kid!"

A bright red flushed through the brunette's cheeks as he shook in anger. "I'll tell you where you can stuff that icepack-!" He snapped his mouth shut as a woman and her daughter suddenly walked by them. It seemed that the man realized once again that they were outside on a crowded street, and slowly sank back against the stone, glaring a silent warning at the child. The boy pretended to not notice.

They sat in silence – the man leaning up against the wall, the child kicking his heels back against the bricks – until a truck drove by, hitting a puddle and sending up a wave of water to soak them both.

"You bastard!" The man cursed, jumping up and shaking his fist after it. "Watch where the fuck you're driving! You son of a bitch, I bet your mother dropped you on your head, you worthless piece of-"

The boy giggled, making the brunette turn around and snap, "What!"

"I bet whoever raised you to talk like that would be proud," the boy said with an amused grin. The man snorted and ran a hand through his (now damp) hair.

"Trust me, it was self-taught. Why brat, did your mother teach you how to swear?"

"What? No!" The boy shook his head vigorously. The man rolled his eyes.

"Then we're in the same boat."

The boy was quiet, turning over the icepack in his hands (the bump on his head had stopped hurting, and the ice was half-melted anyway). What did this guy want with him? Couldn't he just go home now?

"Why did you want to pickpocket me, anyway?" the man asked, breaking the silence.

The boy stared at him as if he were stupid. Did he seriously just ask why someone was trying to steal his wallet in Rome? "You're not from around here, are you?"

The man "tch"ed and wrung out the hems of his shirt onto the sidewalk. "Define 'here'."

The boy didn't know how to respond to that, so he just answered the man's previous question. "I wanted to buy a necklace for my mamma."

"Why can't she just buy it herself? Was it a birthday present or something?"

"No." The boy bit his lip. "It… it was going to be a 'sorry' present. I got into a fight with a couple of kids and she was… really upset." He stared down at his feet. "She hates it when I fight. I kinda want to stop, but I get so mad when they make fun of me."

The brunette studied him for a moment. "Kid, what's your name?"

"I already said I'm not telling you."

"Fine." The man shrugged. "Then I won't tell you the best way to stop fighting all the time." The boy's eyes widened dramatically.

"It's Matteo," the child answered immediately, then blushed. "Matteo DiCarlo."

The brunette nodded with a smirk playing across his lips before continuing. "Well, then, kid. What you have to realize is that the world is full of idiots. They're stupid and loud, but that won't change even if you smack them around a couple times. So, since they aren't worth your time, you just run – not because you're retreating, of course! But just because they're so stupid that nothing can save them at this point, so why even bother?" He folded his arms and nodded in self-satisfaction.

Matteo stared at him in disbelief. "That's a stupid way."

"What! It's a great way!" The man's cheeks flushed as Matteo rolled his eyes. "It is!"

"Running away won't make them stop picking on me for being poor," the boy said lowly. Matteo tugged at a loose thread on his shirt. "Doesn't matter how stupid they are," he mumbled.

The steam seemed to leave the man as he looked over at Matteo. "They make fun of you because you're poor?"

Matteo refused to look up at him, especially once he felt the tell-tale prickles behind his eyes. "Yeah. We have been ever since dad died." He kicked the wall harder. "Papa made a deal with the mafia but… he never told mamma. They took everything we had as payment once he was gone, and they still come every month to take what she's earned from her job. It isn't fair..." The boy suddenly went rigid and turned towards the other quickly. "Don't tell my mamma that I know this! She thinks I don't! I-" He was cut off gently by a hand ruffling his hair back.

"Nah, kid, I don't even know who your mom is, remember?" The man looked distracted, as if something heavy were troubling him.

"You never told me your name," the boy pointed out, hesitantly letting his hair be patted down. It was soothing coming from this man, though the child had no idea why.

"Hm? Oh, it's Lovino," the man answered distractedly, still seeming to be thinking about something.

Matteo snorted. "What kind of name is that?"

"A good one, now shut up." Lovino was silent for another moment. Suddenly, he shoved himself away from the wall and jerked his head in the direction of a gelato shop on the corner. "You hungry?"

Matteo's eyes widened to rival the size of dinner plates. Gelato was a lot more expensive than anything his family usually ate. He nodded quickly and trotted after Lovino, who had already started walking.

It took Matteo a long time to finally decide what flavor to get – after sampling half of their kinds, Lovino finally rolled his eyes and told him to "order already or you're getting the low-fat vanilla crap." Matteo didn't think that was much of a threat considering the last time he had eaten _anything _sweet was over a month ago, but quickly decided on a flavor nonetheless.

They walked as they ate, passing up more market stalls and street vendors. Matteo was silent as they passed by the green grocers' stall from earlier. He ate his gelato slowly.

"What's wrong with you, kid?" Lovino asked off-handedly.

Matteo looked up at him. His eyebrows were furrowed. "Why are you buying me stuff when I tried to steal your wallet? Shouldn't you be, like, mad at me or something?"

Lovino shrugged. "I can take the ice cream away if you want."

"No!" Matteo clutched his cone protectively and took a huge bite out of it to emphasize his point – Lovino chuckled.

"Then stop worrying about it." The brunette finished his more slowly as they walked on.

"Thank you," Matteo said quietly, ducking his head in embarrassment. Lovino paused in his stride, glancing down at Matteo in mild surprise. The child felt himself blushing and refused to look up. Matteo walked past the older man as if the child had said nothing. After a moment, Lovino followed him.

"You know, there _is _a good way to stop wanting to fight. Or, I can tell you what I think is a good way, at least." The older man was looking away once more, as if slightly hesitant to be bringing up the subject again. Matteo looked up.

"Is it stupid like your last idea?" He received a light rap on his forehead for the comment.

"No – and if you act like that, I won't tell you at all," Lovino replied testily. Matteo snapped his lips shut and turned his eyes up, watching Lovino expectantly as they walked. "You… it's hard," the brunette began – he almost seemed self-conscious of the words, but continued – hesitantly, slowly. "It doesn't matter how much money you have, or what your family's like. People will pick on you no matter what. You have to be strong – I'm not talking about physical strength because being a muscle-head won't get you anywhere, that's just stupid. You have to be strong in the form of endurance because – well. That's what you gotta do: endure. Life isn't easy, and those hard-asses aren't going to make it any easier. But sometimes it's better to just walk away… Let it go. It's not simple – that's for damn sure – and you're not gonna like it, but you know what? Your mother will. So think of her _before _you throw your fists around – not after. …Okay, kid?" He glanced down, then back up again quickly. "I mean, _I _think that's the best way. It probably is, because it's just common sense. I guess _you _don't have to think so…" Lovino trailed off, looking markedly uncomfortable. "Ah shit, you know what? Just do whatever works for you, brat, because they're not worth your time. Your mother is. And that's that." The brunette huffed and the blush was steadily creeping over his cheeks and turning them a light pink.

Matteo silently reached up and grabbed the other man's hand, and kept it in his little grasp as Lovino jerked his head down in surprise. Matteo looked away.

"Thank you," he whispered again, but this time just loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the city.

A low chuckle, and Matteo glanced up to see a smile spread across the man's face. Lovino's longer fingers gently closed over the small hand, and they continued walking.

"Let's get you home, kid."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

When Romano walked into the back room of the ritzy hotel, it was dark outside. The windowpane on one side of the room glowed with yellow light from the bustling streets – a constant reminder of the city life, and it was a nice view overall, (to be expected from one of the nicest hotels in Rome) but that wasn't what he was here for.

"I want the Dicarlo family out. Now." His voice wasn't as impressive or commanding as he had wanted it to be – but that didn't matter. The nation stood in the center of the room and glared at the man behind the fancy rosewood desk, flanked on either side by several others, all regarding him with reserved expressions.

"Ah, it's you." The man in the center finally stood up and offered his hand. Romano didn't shake it – he didn't even look at it. He remained glaring at him, hands hanging against his sides and it was a conscious effort of his to refrain from balling them into fists.

"The Dicarlo family," Romano repeated, "they're done. You won't collect dues from them anymore."

The man sighed and retracted his hand, adjusting his suit lapels before once again seating himself. "Listen, kid. I recognize you from before – you're that guy who stormed in here before and demanded us to shut down our entire system at your whim." The men gathered around him chuckled a bit before falling silent. All eyes were on Romano. "I also," he continued, "remember the look on your face when you realized that you weren't going to be able to do a damn thing to stop us. Quite frankly, it's beyond me how you gathered enough connections to find us in the first place and I must say, I was impressed."

Romano let out a hissing breath, but otherwise remained standing perfectly still. "I'm telling you to shut down your claim on one family – not the entire country. This time, at least. I guarantee that one day I'll run you bastards off the peninsula, but for now," – he reached into his pocket, ignoring the flash of guns silently drawn, and tossed an envelope onto the desk – "this covers more than what you could get from them. I suggest you take it."

Curiously, the boss slid his finger under the flap and tore it open. A gold chain slid out of its paper container, followed by an intricate silver cross embedded with rubies.

"It's from the Vatican's collection. Worth more than this hotel." He sniffed. "More than ten times what you would ever get out of that family." (Romano knew that he might very well be closer to hell with this little trade of his, but had decided just to spend an extra hour in St. Peter's and hopefully everything would even itself out. God would rather have a family taken out of debt than a stupid little cross gathering dust in a vault somewhere, right?)

The awe was evident on the Mafioso's face, but he kept it under professional control – smoothing out his voice before speaking. "I feel the need to ask why you're willing to trade away a stolen small fortune to stop us collecting from one hardly-known family. Are you a Dicarlo yourself?"

The nation snorted. "Nah. Let's just say I'm a family friend, and leave it at that. I wouldn't want to get too personal with you bastards." His olive gaze leveled once again with that of the mob boss'. "So leave them alone."

A thoughtful silence, and then a small smile curved around the man's lips. "Alright then. You certainly can be very convincing, boy." He replaced the rosary within the envelope, and handed it to one of his guards. "I hope you won't be too bitterly disappointed when you realize you have a very long wait before the mafia is gone from Italy." The smirk was goading, now, but Romano was acutely aware that he was being measured up. A random teenager bearing stolen goods from the Vatican? How very suspicious it must be.

And suspicion was what the mafia managed to control fairly well.

Romano shrugged, waving a hand around in a careless, wide-sweeping gesture. "I have time." He ignored them, ignored their biting eyes on him, and turned around and left. He made sure to slam the door closed behind him, though. If he was lucky, then it would jam and then those bastards would have to call the front desk to come and pry their poor money-grabbing economy-destroying selves out. It would be a small comfort.

One tiny victory was claimed, though – Matteo and his mother were safe from the mafia for the rest of their time. That was what Romano had walked here intending to accomplish, and that's just what he did. Who said he couldn't get things done? Ha, screw everyone else – he was a damned good country and they were all jealous.

He was out on the streets again – glad to be away from that uptight and stuffy hotel. Romano heaved a sigh and ran a hand back through his hair. The nightlife of Rome was buzzing around him, and he was glad to be swept up into it. Matteo's mother was safe from the mafia – no men in black suits would be coming to her back door anymore. Neither she nor Matteo would have to worry… Romano was glad. The woman had been quite nice when he had taken Matteo home (the country had left out the part about Matteo trying to steal his wallet, and Romano had almost been able to feel the relief radiating off of the boy) and by then, he had already decided what needed to be done. They deserved better.

… Hopefully the old man wouldn't realize that a rosary was gone from the Vatican. Romano flinched outwardly – that wouldn't be a fun thing to explain to the Pope. He could probably just feign innocence, though… and besides, he was fucking half of Italy! Surely he was entitled to some of the stupid trinkets lying around when they had vaults more full of them.

To his mild surprise, Romano found himself at the foot of the Spanish steps. Tourists piled on them, running up and down, little children playing in the ornate fountain at the bottom and generally making themselves a sopping mess for their parents to clean up. Romano rolled his eyes. They would clear out by midnight. Until then, he decided to traipse his way to the top, taking his time as he trailed around the families sitting on the stones.

_Hopefully that little runt won't be getting into fights anymore_, he thought to himself idly as he made his way up. _Though his mother probably won't be as stressed out anymore if he does. I guess that's the glory of the mafia leaving you alone… _ He frowned. He was getting sick of this shit. Maybe if his government would get its act together…

A gust of cool air eased the frustration building up in his chest and Romano breathed it in fully. Standing at the top of the steps, Rome was nothing but blue sky and black buildings and gold. He didn't consider himself egotistical when he thought it was beautiful. Heck, he _knew _other people thought so; if the millions of tourists didn't attest to it, his brother certainly could. "_Oh fratello everything's so pretty! Let's stand here for awhile, I want to just look at it!_" Veneziano's voice rang in his head, and Romano sighed, leaning on the carved rail.

If he squinted over the lit up buildings and churches Romano was able to make out roughly where Matteo and his mother lived. They had most likely already settled in for the night – the thought satisfied him somehow. He didn't think that helping one kid among his millions could really make a difference, yet… He sighed again and relaxed, letting the chatter and sounds of night wash over him like a wave.

Endure… wasn't that what he told the kid? Just endure and everything will turn out fine. Romano almost rolled his eyes again, but instead just took in the view. Of course Matteo would endure – Italians could endure anything. They had been doing so for centuries, and it wasn't about to stop now. Matteo would endure… because he was Italian through and through – and Romano smiled into the wind.

* * *

A/N: Ahhh Italy~ Coincidentally, we were just talking about Rome in my Italian class today. :) It's probably what inspired me to finally edit this and update.

And I know that I already told my deviantART watchers about this, but I thought that some of you might be mildly (dare I say it?) interested to know that I have a Tumblr account: http/ niirasri. tumblr. com/ So yeah. Check that out if you want to~ (I mostly post artwork, but sometimes I put up a drabble or two, and sometimes excerpts from a story in the works.)

As always, reviews are my lifeblood. Just imagine that they are nickels, and each one I get will give me more change towards an around-the-world vacation! X3 (Yeah... something like that...)

Next up, I'm actually switching around my order a little bit to give you guys Switzerland! I have an idea that just won't quit plaguing me for him, so I'd better get it out of my system soon...


	11. Switzerland

A/N: Well. It's been awhile. I'm still working on this fic, slowly but dutifully. Like I've mentioned before, I'm still trying to make sure the quality of each chapter is consistent - thanks for being so patient with me!

**Disclaimer:** I DO NOT OWN AXIS POWERS HETALIA OR ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM SAID SERIES. All depicted anthropomorphisms of countries are for entertainment purposes only and are not meant to offend.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when she arrived home to her quiet – oh, so quiet – house. The mountains, very visible outside the cottage's windows, blocked out the sun too early in the day and plunged each room into premature shadow. The old lady did not turn on any lights as she moved through her home.

She did not light the oven to start dinner, nor did she start the bath. The woman moved – slowly, carefully – over to the fireplace mantel in the middle of her modest living room. The wool rug shuffed under her feet.

On the mantel was an assortment of things. Two simple candlesticks, a bundle of dried wildflowers, a small hand-painted wooden bird… Her aged hands strayed over these, lightly brushing the dust from the tops of each. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she picked up a small porcelain rose and set it back down with care. So many memories on this small stone shelf…

And then her fingertips brushed the glass of a photograph frame. A picture of a young man, not a day older than thirty smiled out at her. The glass protecting the photograph was smudged and dusty – she made to move to clean it like the other trinkets. Both hands grasped around its edges, and it was with careful action that she finally brushed a thumb across the man's smiling, captured-forever face.

Slowly, the woman laid the frame down to touch the mantel with such care as if it were made of diamonds. She left it flat, face-down – the woman turned away and busied herself for bed.

She pulled back the blankets and lowered herself onto the creaking mattress. With a broken sigh, the woman rolled over and closed her eyes, ignoring with silent and aged resignation the tears that were dampening the pillow case.

The cottage remained dark.

o-o-o

Three months later, the woman rested against the pasture fence, wiping her forehead on the back of her glove. Several goats milled around her, bleating as they brushed against each other. Two butted their noses against her pockets, stamping their hooves expectedly. It was a nice day on the mountain.

"I've already given you food today," the woman said, not unkindly as she brushed them away. "Shoo, go off and graze. Let an old woman be." They didn't listen, of course. She reached down and scratched a spotted goat behind its horns. It flicked its ears and nibbled at the seams of her shirt.

"Now enough of that," the old woman scolded the goat – she pulled her clothing away and stepped out of the pasture, closing the gate behind her. The goats followed her to the fence and nosed through the wooden slats at her fingers. She brushed their noses fondly before bolting the gate to the little goatshed.

It and the surrounding pasture sat nicely next to her cottage. The homely combination was only held off from being a perfect picture because of her inability to plant garden flowers around the little lean-to. The one time she had tried (she remembered fondly), the daisy heads had been eaten within the hour, and the rest of them were quick to follow. Goats were impossible.

Off in the distance, thunder rolled. The sound echoed through the mountains like a growl until finally settling in the valleys. The old woman double-checked the padlock, then quickly set her tools against the back of the lean-to and went inside. No sense in staying out tonight – it was going to be a downpour, undoubtedly.

o-o-o

She had been right. The little house stood remarkably well against the gale going on outside. Rain came in sheets against the windows, making the lace curtains around them shudder like moth wings. The old woman sat calmly by the fireplace in a fraying armchair – she kept busy by reading a little novella she had picked up in her spare time; it looked like tonight she would finally finish it.

A wave of rain hit the windows and the sound reverberated through her little cottage like bullets. The woman shivered and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Though the house was by no means large, sometimes it felt as huge as a mansion. An empty mansion.

Thunder outside boomed, and the old woman shifted in her chair before getting to her feet and shuffling over to the window. The little electric light swung slightly in the distance from the roof of the lean-to, but she could make it out even through the storm. From what the woman could see, the goats were fine – the night was absent of any distressed bleats or the thumps of hooves against wood. Still, as the rain drove on, the woman supposed it would do to check on them. She chuckled to herself, muttering, "old woman's folly, going out in a mountain storm to make sure her goats are happy," under her breath as she put on a heavy coat.

The woman was sure it was her bones creaking instead of the house as she stepped outside. The rain soaked her – thankfully thick – coat easily, and she nearly lost her footing on her first step in the muddy, slippery ground.

'_I'm getting old,_' she thought blearily, hoisting her own electric lantern up high and feeling the protest of arthritis in her arms. She swallowed that thought and hiked up her boots, heading towards the pasture.

Like she had expected, the goats were all huddled together inside the lean-to, keeping dry next to the tools and chopped wood piles. "I thought so," she murmured with a smile while patting the closest one on the head. The woman rearranged some of the tools as to give the animals more room before picking up her lantern and trudging out again into the downpour.

It was as she was halfway back to the cottage (and severely looking forward to the kettle she would be putting on the fire to boil) that the old woman caught sight of another light swinging in the distance. She stopped, caught off-guard.

"Hello?" There was no response. Maybe she had been seeing things. "Hello!" she tried again, more loudly – the rain _was_ quite heavy, after all.

This time, there was an answer, albeit more annoyed-sounding than the woman would have expected; "Yes, hello? What is it?"

Almost stunned to silence that there would be someone out in this downpour, the woman hurried to the mountain path she couldn't see but knew was there. When she drew closer, the woman was able to make out a figure – a man, blonde with chin-length hair and slightly taller than herself, and looking thoroughly soaked in a thin jacket and using a handheld flashlight.

"Where are you going out in this storm?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows once she reached the man. He held a sleeve over his face to hold off some of the downpour in order to see the woman clearly.

"To town. Listen, I'd like to talk, but I need to get going-"

"To the town?" The old woman shook her head. "No, no, no… that's at least another four kilometers from here!"

The man frowned at her as if to say '_that's why I was hurrying_'. "I know that, and I'm getting soaked so I would really like to get there. …Actually-" he took another look at her – "What are you doing out in this weather? Shouldn't you be indoors?" Concern flitted across the young blonde's face, nearly invisible in the lantern's beams.

She pointed to the light coming from her cottage. "I live just over there. Please, you can stay until the storm ends – it's dangerous on the mountains in this rain."

"No, I really do need to get going. I suggest you go inside." He turned to leave, but she reached out and clamped onto the man's jacket with surprising strength for her age.

"I insist. Whatever you have in the town can wait for an hour or two. Please," she implored him, "it's no trouble at all. I would feel much better if you were safe inside than thinking that I let someone walk outside in this downpour."

"But, I…" The young man seemed to chew the inside of his cheek as he looked down the road, then up at the sky. It loomed over the mountain like a menacing black monster. "…Okay," he conceded. He followed the woman through the rain to the doorstep of her cottage and nearly tripped as he hastened inside – she shut the door behind them both, blocking out a fresh cascade of water. A peal of thunder rang throughout the house as the woman fetched a towel and handed it to the blonde.

He accepted it gratefully after he had peeled off his coat and shoes. She set these by the fireplace while he dried off with a sigh.

"I didn't think it would rain today, otherwise I would've taken a car instead." He hung up the towel next to his coat once he had soaked up as much water as possible. "Thank you for letting me stay here," he told her seriously. She smiled kindly in return.

"Think nothing of it – I wouldn't dream of letting any poor soul out in this storm." Outside, the wind seemed to prove her point – it rattled the panes and echoed through the valleys below, creating an eerie howl.

"My name's Vash," he offered after a moment.

"It's nice to meet you, Vash." She smiled again, busying herself with putting on the kettle. "My name is Marietta. I like your name – very nice, a strong name."

He shifted uncomfortably and mumbled "thank you." Vash stood awkwardly in the middle of the room until he noticed Marietta struggle slightly with the kettle. "Here, let me do that – don't hurt yourself."

Marietta looked up from her work. "Oh, no – you don't have to-" but he gently took it from her, ushering her in the direction of her armchair. "Nonsense, you're letting me stay here out of the storm. Go sit down, I'll take care of it." She laughed at the seriousness of his sincerity.

"Alright," Marietta said with amusement twinkling in her eyes. "I'll let you take care of it."

o-o-o

Vash stayed for dinner that night. He dutifully helped with the preparations (Marietta kept reminding him that he was a guest and should let her do the work, but then he would stubbornly reply that it was a guest's duty to assist their host in whatever way possible, and that she should really just leave the whole thing to him.) They sat down to eat around her tiny table, two places set. He complimented the food she had prepared, and then praised the ingredients and how cheap they had been at the supermarket the last time he had been there, which Marietta thought was an odd comment, but an amusing one, all the same.

She learned that the reason he had wanted to return to town that night was because his younger sister was expecting him back – he assured Marietta that his sister would not worry and would assume that he had found somewhere out of the rain to wait. He didn't really seem to believe himself, though, so Marietta nodded in agreement with a remark about how nice his sister must be, and Vash agreed and that was that.

The storm refused to retire that night, so after several hours Marietta offered him one of her umbrellas. Vash rejected it at first, muttering something about "just walking in the rain isn't that bad," but she kept insisting upon it, showing him the other ones she had just to convince him that he wouldn't be leaving her helpless. Finally, he gave in, talking the umbrella – though he looked thoroughly unhappy about it. Marietta laughed again and patted his shoulder.

"You shouldn't be so serious. Smile a bit; you've been delightful company – a very responsible young man, you are."

For the first time that night, Vash did smile. It was small, but enough to lighten his rather strict demeanor.

"Thank you. I'm glad you think so." For just a moment, Marietta wondered how old this boy was, but supposed it would seem rude to ask outright. "Goodnight, Marietta." He shook her hand. "Thank you for letting me stay, I'm sorry I couldn't do more to help."

She waved it away, "No, no, don't worry anything about it – worry about getting to town safely and seeing your sister."

He nodded and opened the borrowed umbrella before stepping out into the downpour. Vash waved once before disappearing into the dark, and Marietta closed the door with a light click behind him.

Like every night, she busied herself with getting ready for bed. Marietta closed the curtains, smothered the fire down to burning coals, and changed into her bedclothes. During the whole process, she felt… oddly content.

Her house felt more familiar to her that night than it had in quite a while.

o-o-o

Marietta was not expecting Vash to come to her door the next morning. She opened it to find him not only holding her old umbrella (which she hadn't expected to be returned, anyway) but also a covered basket. He held out the basket for her to take, and then placed the umbrella back in its stand once Marietta had stepped back to allow him in.

"My sister made those for you," he said, looking at the basket. Marietta lifted the cloth to discover freshly-baked buns.

"Well, isn't that the sweetest thing," the old woman exclaimed.

"She wanted to say 'thank you' for letting me stay dry during the storm yesterday. I told her I had already said thanks but she insisted, and I have to say that I agree with her…" He smoothed back his hair, as if embarrassed. "So thank you."

"It was a pleasure, my dear." She glanced at the table, then at the working clothes she was wearing. "I would like to offer you something to drink, but I was instead about to go outside and tend to the goats – would you like to join me for a bit?"

He didn't even seem surprised by the unconventional offer – many people in Switzerland, especially those who lived in the mountains, herded animals for a living. He followed her out to the lean-to.

Just like yesterday, Vash insisted on helping her. She tried to reason that she hadn't taken him out there to work, she had simply wanted his company. "I may be old, but I've been taking care of my goats for seventy years and I don't need your help."

"One day of rest won't dull your developed work ethic, then," he idly retorted, and turned back to the work before him as Marietta smiled on.

Later on, Marietta would reflect on how naturally Vash had carried out the chores and handled the goats, and wonder if he didn't come from a herding family himself. Obviously, he had experience with the animals that only comes from being around them for quite some time.

o-o-o

"I brought my sister today. She wanted to thank you face-to-face." Marietta had opened the door while wiping her hands on an old dishcloth to find Vash once again on her doorstep, looking quite flustered. Next to him stood a girl, small in stature but with large, pretty eyes and a ribbon in her hair. Marietta smiled back as the girl beamed at her and then set the dishcloth aside to accept the basket being offered.

"Please have these vegetables as a gift – we grew them in our garden," the girl told her. She clasped her hands in the folds of her old-fashioned dress afterwards, and Marietta thought that she was adorable, and no wonder Vash hadn't wanted to make her worry at all.

"And I would like – if it's not too much trouble-" his sister continued in her timid voice while her brother looked on, suddenly seeming very interested in Marietta's doorhandle, "I would like to cook dinner for you tonight, as well."

"I think," Marietta said thoughtfully, and she saw Vash glance up out of the corner of his eye. "I think I would like that. Very much." She held the door open with a warm smile for them, and the old woman was very happy.

After commenting on how beautiful Marietta's cottage was with an earnestness that almost made the old woman blush, Vash's sister disappeared to the kitchen. Marietta apologized for the lack of ingredients in her cupboards, but the bright girl insisted that everything was perfect and that she would try to make a good dinner and wouldn't she like to sit down in a comfortable chair while everything was being prepared?

Marietta chuckled as she entered her sitting room. True to the girl's wishes, she sat in her favorite chair, resigning herself to being treated like the old woman she was – at least for that night. It was only as she rested her head back against the cushion that she noticed Vash.

He was staring at her fireplace mantle with the intensity that Marietta had just found to be commonplace in the boy. His fingers brushed over the frames and wooden little pieces of nothing that meant more to her than anyone else. Perhaps she should dust the mantle soon, Marietta thought idly.

Vash stopped at the simple silver frame, turned down against the brick, and gently lifted it up. The photo – protected in its little cave between frame and brick, had been left unmarred by the settling dust.

"Who is this?" he asked, turning towards Marietta and holding the photo up for her to see, but she already knew which one he was showing.

Marietta was calmer than she had expected to be upon viewing the smiling man's face again. "That," she answered quietly, "was my son."

The discomfort was there on Vash's face at her slow answer. But instead of moving on to another subject – the weather, perhaps, or maybe asking about her goats – (she expected him to, after all; why would someone so young with all their life ahead of them want to think about death?) he instead turned the frame to himself, staring at the smiling face of her boy while he seemed to mull the next words over in his mind.

"When did he pass away?" Vash finally asked, placing the frame gently back on the mantle – face up, this time.

"Oh… about three months ago it's been." Marietta's gentle expression faltered for the first time, but she had known it would. She felt so tired. Old. Marietta felt so old.

Vash turned from her to look over the photos and trinkets once more. "Is this your husband?" he asked quietly, taking another photograph from its place. She nodded.

"He passed away eleven years ago. He was a fine man – I was proud to be married to him." And as Vash's eyes roamed over the other pictures, she knew he was looking for more – sisters, perhaps, or friends or nephews or brothers-in-law…

"I am the last one left in my little family, Vash." Marietta said softly, and Vash turned his gaze from the photographs. "I am alone, but not lonely. I know what people think about a woman my age living alone without any relatives to take care of her, but please, try to understand." She paused, massaging her wrists (when had her joints started to ache so much?) "I would rather stay in my house with my animals than in any nursing home."

Vash shifted, then frowned. For one sad moment Marietta thought that the man wouldn't understand – he would pursue the issue despite what she had said. But instead he took the photograph of her son back up and walked over to where her bed was. Vash placed the frame on her bedside table and angled it to face her before stepping quietly back.

"I think it looks better there," he said as way of explanation, and Marietta found that she agreed with him.

They talked about unimportant things for the next hour – the weather, prices of meat in the supermarkets, the flowers currently covering the mountainside. At half-past six Vash's sister appeared in the doorway with her same beautiful smile and announced that dinner was ready. It was delicious and Marietta insisted that she had never been treated so well before, to which the girl blushed and made Marietta laugh.

Marietta found that she was quite happy.

o-o-o

Vash visited again the next week, saying that he was on a business trip that day, but since he was using his car instead of walking he would be early, anyway. The next weekend Vash appeared at Marietta's doorstep with two loaves of bread, saying that his sister had made too many and insisted that he bring these to her. Two weeks later, he dropped by again, this time insisting that the weather looked bad for tomorrow and he thought it would be a good idea to help her fix any leaks in the goats' lean-to.

Marietta enjoyed these visits, which to her pleasure and surprise became quite a normal thing. A knock on her door and Marietta would answer it to find the blonde, flusteredly explaining his reason for visiting after she had ushered him inside.

They would sit and talk – or, if there was nothing to talk about, they would stay in companionable silence. Sometimes Vash's sister would join them, in which case Marietta found herself to be spoiling the girl more and more like a grandmother would, and the way she would blush and keep insisting that Marietta didn't need to so anything for her Marietta found ridiculously charming.

She looked forward to her visiting days. Marietta didn't know when, but at some point she had forgotten what it had felt like to truly enjoy another's company. Had she really become such a hermit up her in her mountain cottage?

"You _need _to take these with you. There's no way an old lady like me could ever drink so many liters of milk," Marietta insisted one day, pushing the jugs into Vash's unwilling arms. The man was halfway out the door as he was finally made to accept the goat milk Marietta had told him to take.

"Fine, fine, thank you. But only because milk in the stores is ridiculously expensive this week." He loaded them into the backseat of his car, making sure they wouldn't tumble against each other on his trip down the mountain. Vash nodded at her before getting in the driver's seat. "Take care of yourself," he said as way of parting, like he had many times in the past months. Before he could roll up the window, Marietta set a wrinkled had on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

"You've made an old woman very happy, Vash." She beamed at him, but Vash looked up in surprise.

"What? How?" Marietta shook her head slowly, still smiling.

"I told you once that I was 'alone but not lonely,' do you remember?" he nodded and she continued softly, "I think I might have lied to you about the last bit. So thank you, for giving me something to grasp onto."

Vash turned red at her thanks. "I-I have no idea what you're talking about – it – I mean – I was just doing what I wanted to!" At the old woman's laugh, Vash visibly relaxed, unruffling his feathers. "But… um – you're welcome, I guess. I'm glad."

"Goodbye, Vash." Marietta squeezed his shoulder again before turning back towards her cottage. Her bones ached, she felt stiffness in her knees. She was old, she had accepted it by now – no more running away for her.

She was old and content and very much not-alone anymore, even as the mountain clouded around her and she turned out the light to take her rest, for the last time.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Switzerland went to the funeral. He wore a black suit and tie that he had dug out of his closet from quite some time ago. When Liechtenstein had asked him where he was going, the nation had made something up about a government party that he couldn't even properly remember, now. He didn't think that she had been fooled, but she had said nothing.

The church was small. Not many people came – Switzerland recognized a few faces from the town, a few from the countryside around the village. Marietta had said that she didn't keep in contact with too many others – but he was still expecting more people to fill the space which felt so empty being smothered in the black cloth draped from everything.

The nation didn't listen to the priest, or even to the ones who came up to the head of her grave and spoke. He didn't really care about the stories they had to tell, or about the prayers said over her coffin. It was a respect to her memory to come, so Switzerland had stayed because of that. He left after the service, speaking to none of his people, almost like he had never been there.

o-o-o

The next day, he visited the grave. The patch of dirt stood out against the grass surrounding it – at her head was a simple gravestone, yet tasteful, Switzerland thought. It said nothing but her name and the dates of her birth and death on a darker mottled stone – _Probably granite_, he thought idly, scuffing the dirt with his toe. The nation stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"The priest yesterday mentioned that you died peacefully in your sleep. I guess that's a decent way to die." He paused awkwardly, running a hand back through his hair. "I wouldn't really know myself, but I've seen plenty of others go in worse ways, I guess."

The blonde nation stared up at the sky. "I bought your goats," he said suddenly, looking back down at the little black letters which spelled "Marietta" in small engraved print. "It was a horrible deal – I've never seen such atrocious prices for goats in my life at an auction, but Liechtenstein's taking care of them now, so you don't have to worry. They were probably the only thing you're sad about leaving behind."

Switzerland trailed off awkwardly, looking around. He was far too old – he had seen far too many deaths and wars and famines to get emotional about something so small, but the nation still blinked a little more than was necessary as he bent down to place a simple silver picture frame next to the headstone. He straightened up slowly.

"I brought your picture of your son for you, although I see now that they buried you right next to him, so you probably don't need it anymore." Switzerland nodded at the grave next to hers before falling silent. He stood like that for awhile, looking at her headstone, the grass, the mountains off in the distance – turned blue by the hazy atmosphere.

"I think…" he started slowly, haltingly, as if he hadn't expected for himself to keep talking, "…you were very nice. And exceptional. But not exceptional because you were nice – but because…" Switzerland paused and faltered, realizing he had no idea where he was going, so he stopped – and tried again.

"I am – proud. To have had you as one of mine. You… you were stronger than I've given humans credit for being in a long time." And he wasn't one for hand motions, but Switzerland gestured widely around him with one arm as he continued. "I think – you realized better than most that it's not the land, but the people who make somewhere home so… thanks."

He had a lot more to say but nothing else seemed really important. The sky was nothing but blue, that day. Butterflies fluttered around the grass, playing in their circles and spirals of erratic flight; one came to rest on the headstone. It soaked up the welcome sun on its wings. Switzerland turned from the grave and walked away, thinking, _I would say that you were strong-willed and stood up for yourself right from the very start, Marietta – but, you were Swiss – you couldn't be anything else._

* * *

A/N: This one's quite a bit more depressing than the others - sorry about that.

Once again, I would like to ask for suggestions about countries and issues that people are interested in seeing written. I can't promise that I will use everything that's suggested, but anything helps! Thanks to those who have already shared their ideas with me, I can't wait to put some of them into play. :)

Reviews help me see where I should go next with this fic! Critiques on anything from my plots to characterization to my writing style are all greatly appreciated.

Next chapter is Russia - kolkolkol~_  
_


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